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X 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 


BY 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 


£ 


-. 


. 


- 


NEW    YORK 

J.     B.    FORD    AND     COMPANY 

1871 


*  I  t 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870, 

BY    J.    B.    FORD     &     CO., 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


ism 


PREFACE. 


This  book  has  been  prepared  with  the  aim  of  gathering  into  a  single 
volume  the  largest  practicable  compilation  of  the  best  Poems  of  the  English 
language,  making  it  as  nearly  as  possible  the  choicest  and  most  complete 
general  collection  of  Poetry  yet  published. 

The  name  "  Library"  which  is  given  it  indicates  the  principle  upon  which 
the  book  has  been  made  :  namely,  that  it  might  serve  as  a  book  of  reference  ; 
as  a  comprehensive  exhibit  of  the  history,  growth,  and  condition  of  poetical 
literature  ;  and,  more  especially,  as  a  companion,  at  the  will  of  its  possessor, 
for  the  varying  moods  of  the  mind. 

Necessarily  limited  in  extent,  it  yet  contains  one  ■fifth  more  matter  than 
any  similar  publication,  presenting  over  fifteen  hundred  selections,  from 
more  than  four  hundred  authors.  It  is  believed  that  of  the  poetical  writers 
acknowledged  by  the  intelligent  and  cultivated  to  be  great,  none,  whether 
English,  Scotch,  Irish,  or  American,  will  be  found  unrepresented  in  the 
volume  ;  while  many  verses,  of  merit  though  not  of  fame,  found  in  old 
books  or  caught  out  of  the  passing  current  of  literature,  have  been  here 
collated  with  those  more  notable.  And  the  chief  object  of  the  collection 
—  to  present  an  array  of  good  poetry  so  widely  representative  and  so  varied 
in  its  tone  as  to  offer  an  answering  chord  to  every  mood  and  phase  of 
human  feeling  —  has  been  carefully  kept  in  view,  both  in  the  selection 
and  the  arrangement  of  its  contents.  So  that,  ill  all  senses,  the  realization 
of  the  significant  title,  "  Library,"  has  been  an  objective  point. 

In  pursuance  of  this  plan,  the  highest  standard  of  literary  criticism  has 
not  been  made  the  only  test  of  worth  for  selection,  since  many  poems  have 
been  included,  which,  though  less  perfect  than  others  in  form,  have,  by 
sui no  power  of  touching  the  heart,  gained  and  maintained  a  sure  place 
in  the  popular  esteem.  This  policy  has  been  followed  with  the  more 
confidence,  as  every  poem  of  the  collection  has  taken  its  place  in  the 
book  only  after  passing  the  cultured  criticism  of  .Mr.  William  Cullcn 
Bryant.  Although  Mr.  Bryant  is  not  responsible  for  the  classification 
and  arrangement  of  the  poems,  yet,  as  he  says  in  the  very  interesting 
"Introduction"  which  he  has  contributed,  he  has  "used  a  free  hand, 
as  requested,  both  in  excluding  and  adding  matter,  according  to  his 
judgment  of  what  was  needed."     In  so  far,  therefore,  it  has  the  sanction 


-ff 


2047571 


ifh Eh 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


STEEL  ENGRAVING:  — 

Portrait  of  William  Culle-n  Bryant Frontispiece 

WOOD  ENGRAVINGS:—  Pagb 

Nature's  Teaching 21 

Love-Letters  in  Flowers 67 

The  Banks  of  the  Lee 126 

Marine  View 153 

The  Poacher's  Game 198 

The  Blind  Milton  and  his  Daughters 265 

Sunrise  in  the  Mountains 311 

The  Nightingale ;  349 

Autumn  Days 370 

Honest  Toil 421 

The  Equinox 473 

Coast  Scene '. 477 

Fisher's  Rock 529 

A  Summer  Evening 593 

Harvest  Time 617 

The  Convent 6S4 

FACSIMILE  OF  THE  AUTOGRAPH  MANUSCRIPT  OF 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson xxii 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow xxxii 

William  Cullen  Bryant 2 

John  Howard  Payne 30 

Thomas  Hood 222 

Leigh  Hunt 256 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 256 

Alfred  Tennyson 296 

George  H.  Boker • 374 

T.  Buchanan  Read 412 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 414 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 428 

Bayard  Taylor     468 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 492 

N.  P.  Willis 524 

George  P.  Morris 524 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck 564 

W.    GlLMORB   SIMMS 564 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 628 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 676 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney 676 

John  Quincy  Adams 700 

James  Russell  Lowell 724 

John  G.  Saxe 724 

Julia  Ward  Howe 776 


tfr 


t& 


■a 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


ADAMS,  JOHN  QUINCY. 

Quincy.  Mass.,  1767  -1848.  Page 

The  Wants  of  Man 5^7 

ADAMS,  SARAH  F. 
England,  d.  1848. 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee  "      .        .        .        .278 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH. 
England,  1672  - 1719. 

Cato's  Soliloquy 624 

Sempronius's  Speech  for  War  ....  435 

"  The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare  "  .  283 

"  When  all  thy  mercies,  O  my  God  !  "      .         .  279 

AKENSIDE,  MARK. 
England,  1721-1770. 

Imagination 630 

Virtuoso,  The 737 

AKERS,  MRS.  ELIZABETH. 
See  Florence  Percy. 

ALDRICH,  JAMES. 
America,  1810-1856. 

Death-Bed,  A 188 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY. 
Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  b.  1336. 

When  the  Sultan  goes  to  Ispahan    .        .        .107 

ALGER,  WILLIAM  ROUNSEVILLE. 
Freetown,  Mass.,  b.  1823. 

Parting  Lovers,  The  (Translation)         .         .         147 
To  Heaven  approached  a  Sufi  Saint  (Translation)  262 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM. 
Ireland. 

Dirty  Old  Man,  The 206 

Fairies,  The 667 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 52 

ALLISON,  RICHARD. 
England,  I'Uli  century. 

"  There  is  a  garden  in  her  face  "       ...      39 

ALLSTON,  WASHINGTON. 
Georgetown,  S.  C,  i779-i343._ 

America  to  Great  Britain       ....         444 

Boyhood 27 

Rosalie 227 

ALTENBURG,  MICHAEL. 
Germ  my,  M83-  1640. 

Battle-Song  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  The  (Trans- 
lation)   396 

AN  VCREON. 

Greece,  d.  476  B..  C. 

Grasshopper,  The 355 

Spring 309 

AN  PROS,  R.  S.  S. 

Amen 

Perseverance 346 

ANGELO,  MICHAEL. 
Italy,  147.4- 

"  It  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing"  .      41 

"The  might  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love  "     43 

ANSTER,  JOHN. 

lrcl  .u 

1   my  Child,  The 668 


ARNOLD,  EDWIN. 

England,  1831. 

Almond  Blossom 361 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW. 
England,  b.  1822. 

Philomela 349 

ASKEWE,  ANNE. 

England,  1529- 1546.  Page 

Fight  of  Faith,  The 264 

AYTON,  SIR  ROBERT. 

Scotland,  1570 -1638. 

Woman's  Inconstancy 171 

AYTOUN,  WILLIAM  EDMONDSTOUNE. 

Scotland,  i8r3-  1865. 

Buried  Flower,  The 231 

Execution  of  Montrose,  The    ....  677 

Heart  of  the  Bruce,  The       ....  391 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA. 
Scotland,  1762  -i85r. 

Heath-Cock,  The 345 

"Up!     Quit  thy  bower "       ....  6S 

BARBAULD,  ANNA  LVETITIA. 

England,  1743- 1825. 

"Lifel     I  know  not  what  thou  art  "  •       .    177 

"  Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise  "  .         .        278 

Summer  Evening's  Meditation,  A    .  .        .    315 

BARHAM,    RICHARD    HARRIS    ("  Thomas 
Ingoldsby,  Esq."). 
England,  1788- 1845. 

City  Bells 54* 

Inebriate,  The 767 

JackrYnw  of  Rheims,  The 752 

Knight  and  the  Lady,  The    ....  75s 

Legend  of  a  Shirt,  A 748 

"  Look  at  the  clock  " 751 

Misadventures  at  Margate         ....  749 

BARNARD,  LADY  ANNE. 

Scotland,  1750-182^. 

Auld  Robin  Gray 158 

BARNES,  WILLIAM. 

England. 

"  In  the  stillness  o'  the  night  "  .        .        .        .51 

BARNFIELD,  RICHARD. 

England,  1574-  1606. 

Address  to  the  Nightingale  «...        349 

BARTON,  BERNARD. 
Engl  ind,  1784-  1849. 

Hruce  and  the  Spider 439 

Caractacus 459 

Sea,  The 471 

BAXTER,  RICHARD. 
England,  1615-  1691. 

Valediction,  The 259 

BAYLY,  THOMAS  HAYNES. 

'  ml.  1797  -  1839. 

Mistletoe  Bough,  The 205 

BEATTIE,  JAMES. 

Scoll  inil.  173s-  1803. 

Hermit,  The 57" 

Law 630 

Minstrel,  The 537 

Morning 298 


& 


w 


a- 


Vlll 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


BEAUMONT,  FRANCIS,  and  FLETCHER,  JOHN. 
England,  i       -  and  1576- 1025. 

Folding  the  Flocks 340 

From  Philaster 583 

"  Hence,  all  ye  vain  delights  "...         224 
Invocation  to  Sleep 575 

BEDDOES,  THOMAS  LOVELL. 
England,  18C9-1849. 

Dirge 186 

BENNETT,  WILLIAM  COX. 
Irelan  1. 

Baby  May 4 

Baby's  Shoes 16 

Invocation  to  Rain  in  Summer          .        .        .  607 

Worn  Wedding-Ring,  The   .         .                  .  129 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM. 
England,  1757  -  182S. 

Garden  of  Love,  The 607 

BLANCHARD,  LAMAN. 

England,  1803-18.15. 

Mother's  Hope,  The      .....  13 

BLOOMFIELD,  ROBERT. 
Engl  ind,  1706-  1323. 

Farmer's  Boy,  The 422 

Lambs  at  Play 340 

Moonlight  in  Summer        .....  314 

Soldier's  Return,  The   .....  374 

BOKER,  GEORGE  HENRY. 
Philadelphia,  Ki.,  b.  1824. 

Black  Regiment,  The 449 

Countess  Laura      ......        680 

Dirge  lor  a  Soldier 385 


Prince  Adeb 


5°3 


BOLTON,  SARAH  T. 
Onio. 

Left  on  the  Battle- Fiejd 

BONAR,  HORATIUS. 

Scotland,  b.  1810. 

"  Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping  "  . 
Is  this  all? 

BOURNE,  VINCENT. 

England.  169    -  1   47. 

"Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly" 

BOWDLER,  JOHN,  Jr. 

'•  Children  of  God,  who,  faint  and  slow  " 

BOWKER,  R.  R. 

"  Toll,  then,  no  more  !  " 541 

BOWLES,  CAROLINE  {Mrs.  Southey). 
England,  17  7-1   5  ;■ 

Pauper's  Death-Bed,  The      ....         252 
Greenwood  Shrift,  The 288 

BOWLKS,  WILLIAM   LISLE. 
England,  17 12  -  1 

'•  Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace  "        .         .         326 
Greenwood,    The  ......     325 

Rhine,  On  the 332 

BOWRING,  SIR  JOHN. 

Engl  ind,  b.  1792. 

"  I  rom  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit  " 
The  Nightingale  (Portuguese  Translation) 
The  Nightingale  (Dutch  Translation) 

BRAINARD,  JOHN  G    C. 
New  London,  Conn.,  1796- 1828. 

"  I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning"    . 

BRETON,  NICHOLAS. 

England,  15^-1624. 

"  I  would  I  were  an  excellent  divine  " 
Phillis  the  Fair       .... 


382 


181 
276 


612 


283 


278 
348 
348 


57 


260 
38 


BRISTOL,  LORD. 
England,  1612  - 1676. 

"  See,  O  see  !  " 326 

BROOKS,  CHARLES  T. 

Sale    .  1813. 

Alpine  Heights  (Translation)        .        .        .  332 

1  1  her,  The 670 

Good  Night 426 

Hermann  and  Thusnelda 435 

Men  and  Boys 452 

Nobleman  and  the  Pensioner,  The  (Translation)  398 

Nurse's  Watch 6 

Sword  Song,  The  (Translation)     .         .         .  399 

Winter  Song 317 


BROOKS,  MARIA. 

Medford,  Mass.,  1795 -1845. 

"Day,  in  melting  purple  dying"  . 

BROWN,  FRANCES. 
Ireland,  1818-1804. 

"  O  the  pleasant  days  of  old  1  "         . 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM. 

England,  1590- 1645. 

My  Choice 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  do  I  sing" 

BROWNELL,  HENRY  P.  HOWARD. 
America,  1824. 

Lawyer's  Invocation  to  Spring,  The     . 
"  Let  us  alone  "  .... 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 

England,  1809- 1801. 
Amy's  Cruelty 
Bertha  in  the  Lane    . 
Court  Lady,  A 
De  Profundis 
Deserted  Garden,  The 
Italy    .... 
Lady's  Yes,  The    . 
Lord  Walter's  Wife   . 
Mother  and  Poet    . 
Parting  Lovers  . 
Pet  Name,  The 


156 


465 


60 

40 


753 
738 


62 

•  139 
453 

.     218 
27 

•  453 
•        •  63 

.     131 

192 

.     146 

17 

Portrait,  A  .         .         .     ' 24 

Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest,  The       .        .  20 

Sleep 576 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese         .         .         .         no 
View  across  the  Roman  Campagna,  A      .         .    334 

BROWNING,  ROBERT. 

England,  b.  1812. 

Evelyn  Hope 203 

Flower's  Name,  The     .....  49 
How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 

to  Aix 397 

In  a  Year 166 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp   ....  398 

Meeting . 85 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  The     ....  640 

"The  Moth's  kiss,  first!"    ....  80 

BRYANT,  JOHN  HOWARD. 


Cummington,  Mass.,  b.  1807. 
Little  Cloud,  The  . 
Valley  Brook,  The 


BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN. 
Cummington,  Mass.,  b.  1794. 
America      .         .         ... 
Battle-Field,  The  . 
"  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn  " 
Crowded  Street,  The 
Death  of  the  Flowers,  The 
Evening  Wind,  The 
Fatima  and  Raduan   . 
Forest  Hymn,  A 
Fringed  Gentian,  To  the 
Hurricane,  The 
Hymn  of  the  Sea,  A  . 
Mother's  Hymn,  The    . 
My  Autumn  Walk      . 
Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree,  The 
Robert  of  Lincoln 
Sella's  Fairy  Slippers 
Siesta,  The 
Snow-Shower,  The 
Song  of  Marion's  Men 
Thanatopsis   . 
"  Thou  hast  put  all  things  under  his  feet ' 
To  a  Waterfowl      ..... 

BUCHANAN,  ROBERT. 

Scotland,  b.  1H35. 

Green  Gnome,  The 

Little  Milliner,  The       .... 

Little  Ned 

Metempsychosis 


450 
057 


444 
373 
610 

572 
37° 
299 
97 
358 
365 
530 
470 

274 
382 
36l 
345 
663 

84 
320 

445 
621 

275 
353 


688 
i°5 
247 
725 


BURBIDGE,  THOMAS. 

England,  1816. 

A  Mother's  Love 

BURNS,  ROBERT. 

Scotland,  17=9-1796. 

Ae  fond  Kiss  before  we  part 


'43 


tQ-- 


--B3 


a- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOES. 


II 


ft 


Afton  Water  . 

Auld  Lang  Syne 

Auld  Rob  Morris  . 

Banks  o'  Doon,  The  . 

Bannockburn 

Bard's  Epitaph,  A 

Bonnie  Wee  Thing 

"  Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The 

"  Duncan  Gray  cam'  here  to  w 

"  For  a'  that  and  a'  that  " 

"  Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 

"  Had  I  a  cave  "    . 

Highland  Mary  . 

"  John  Anderson,  my  Jo  " 

"  Let  not  woman  e'er  complain  " 

Life         .... 

Louse,  To  a 

Man  was  made  to  mourn 

Mary  in  Heaven,  To 

Mary  Morison 

Mountain  Daisy,  To  a 

Mouse,  To  a  . 

"  My  heart  's  in  the  Highlands  " 

"  My  wife  's  a  winsome  wee  thing  " 

"Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw" 

"  O  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose  " 

"  O,  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley  ?  " 

Posie,  The      .... 

Tarn  O'  Shanter 

"  The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns 

Toothache,  Address  to  the 

To  the  Unco  Guid 

"  Whistle  and  I  '11  come  to  you,  my  lad  " 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL. 
England.  1600- 1680. 

Hudibras,  The  Logic  of 
Hudibras,  The  Philosophy  of   . 
Hudibras.  The  Religion  of    . 
Hudibras'  Sword  and  Dagger 

BYRD,   WILLIAM. 
England,  [6  o. 

"  My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is  "     . 

BYRON,  GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD. 
Engl  ind,  1 

"  Adieu,  adieu  !  my  native  shore  " 

Augusta,  To 

Beppo,   The  Return  of  . 

Coliseum,  The 

Coliseum  by  Moonlight 

Daniel  Boone    ..... 

Death  (  The  Giaour) 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The 

Dream,  The 

Evening 

"  Fare  thee  well  !  and  if  forever" 
"  Farewell  !  if  ever  fondest  prayer  " 

Filial  Love 

Greece  (  The  Giaour) 

Greece  [Childe  Harold) 

Greek  Poet,  Song  of  the   . 

Invocation  to  the  Angel 

Lambro's  Return       .... 

Late  t  Verses 

"  Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part" 

M  in  —  Woman      .... 

M  i/j|  ipa's  Ride        .... 

N  tpoleon 

Night 

<  '1  --nt.  The    ..... 
"  (  ).  snatched  away  in  beauty's  bloom 
Princess  Charlotte,. The 
I '  of  Chillon,  The  . 

Rhine,    The    ..... 
I       er,  Song  of  the    .... 

Sea,   Tin' 

"  She  walks  in  beauty  "     . 



'•  The  kiss,  dear  maid"      . 
Thomas  Moore,  To 

"  '  1   is  sweet  " 

Transient  Beauty  .... 
Turkish  Camp,  The  .... 
Waterloo         ..... 
"  When  we  two  parted"    . 


329 
609 

159 
158 
440 
708 
10S 

72 
291 
106 
252 

58 
168 
201 
129 

65 
611 

357 
234 
188 

5i 
368 

340 
5'4 
126 

153 
144 

154 
53 
638 
127 
602 
604 
73 


737 
737 
291 

4°5 


565 


148 
139 
49S 
533 
532 
711 
186 
380 

579 
301 
149 
149 
138 
45 1 
4^3 
464 
681 

555 
229 
144 
590 
5°5 
71: 
3°3 
337 
188 
710 
55t 
33i 
478 
469 
44 
7.8 
144 
70S 

583 
171 
400 
400 
•5° 


CALLANAN,    JAMES  JOSEPH. 

Ireland,  1795 -1829. 
Gougaune  Barra 


CAMPBELL,  THOMAS. 
Scotland,  1777  -  1844. 

Battle  of  the  Baltic    .... 
Dying  Gertrude  to  Waldegrave,  The 
Evening  Star,  The     .... 
Exile  of  Erin  .... 
Hallowed  Ground      .        . 
Hohenlinden  .... 
Kiss,  The  First .... 
Lochiel's  Warning 
Maid's  Remonstrance,  The 
Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor 
Poland       ..... 
River  of  Life,  The 
Soldier's  Dream,  The        ... 
"  When  Jordan  hushed  his  waters  still  " 
"  Ye  mariners  of  England  "... 

CANNING,  GEORGE. 
England,  1770  -  1827. 

Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grinder 
Inscription  for  Brownrigg's  Cell 
University  of  Gottingen,  The 

CAREW,  THOMAS. 

England,  1589  -  1039. 

"  Give  me  more  love  or  more  disdain  "    . 
"  He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek  " 
"  I  do  not  love  thee  for  that  fair  "     . 
"Sweetly  breathing,  vernal  air  "  .        .        . 

CARY,  ALICE. 

Cincinnati,  C,  b.  1820. 

Pictures  of  Memory 

Spinster's  Stint,  A 


456 


486 

151 
300 

457 
606 
398 

78 
440 

64 
489 
452 
611 
378 
272 
485 


726 

7°3 
726 


64 

61 

4i 

308 


16 
98 


52 


CAREY,  HENRY. 

England,  1700- 1743. 

Sally  in  our  Alley  .        » 

CARMICHAEL,  SARAH  E. 

America. 

Origin  of  Gold,  The  ..•...,    654 

CASWELL,  EDWARD. 

"  My  God,  1  love  thee"  (Translation  from  St. 

Francis  Xavier) 257 

CHALKH  f  LL,  JOHN.     (Supposed  to  be  a  nom  de 
plume  of  Izaak  Walton.) 
The  Angler 


CHARLES  OF  ORLEANS. 

France,  1391  -  1465. 

Fairest  Thing  in  Mortal  Eyes,  The  . 
Spring 


CHATTERTON,  THOMAS. 
England,  17-2-  i-'-o. 
Minstrel's  Song 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY. 
Engl  ml.  1328-  idno. 

Canterbury  Pilgrims,  The 

CHERRY,  ANDREW. 

I  ind,  1762-  1812. 
The  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  I     . 

CHORLEY,  H.  F. 
Engl  in. I. 

Brave  Old  Oak,  The     . 

CHURCHILL,  CHARLES. 
England*  1;  $i  -1704. 
Smollett 


ClI'.liF.R,  COLLEY. 
1  1: 

Blind  Boy,  The 

CLARE,  JOHN. 
1  m,  -  1864. 

Mary  Lee 
Summer  Moods 


CLARK.  GEORGE  H. 
Newbury  I  jprti  M.iss. 
Rail,The       . 


521 


190 
306 


206 


559 


481 


359 


7°3 


244 


54 
3»3 


745 


*Q- 


tf 


cfr 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


~a 


CLEVELAND,  JOHN. 

England,  1613-1059. 

To  the  Memo.y  of  Ben  Jonson    .        .        .        701 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH. 

England,  1819-1861. 

"  As  ships  becalmed  " 143 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY. 

England.  1796- 1849. 

"  She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view  "        .        .  48 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR. 

England,  1772-1834. 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question   ....  45 

Cologne 736 

Fancy  in  Nubibus      ......  634 

Genevieve       .......  81 

Good  Great  Man,  The 574 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni  280 

Knight's  Tomb,  The 385 

Kubla  Khan 643 

Metrical  Feet 562 

Quarrel  of  Friends,  The         ....  35 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  ....  645 

COLES,  ABRAHAM. 

Dies  Ira? 262 

COLLINS,  ANNE. 

England,  1627. 

"  The-  winter  being  over" 306 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM. 

England,  1720 -1756. 

How  sleep  the  Brave 429 

The  Passions      .......    587 

COLMAN,  GEORGE. 

England,  1762 -1836. 

How  it  happened 720 

Sir  Marmaduke 756 

Newcastle  Apothecary,  The  .        .        .  740 

Toby  Tosspot 742 

CONDER,  JOSIAH. 

England,  1785 -1855. 

"Through  life's  vapors  dimly  seeing"         .        282 

CONGREVE,  WILLIAM. 

England,  1670  -  1729. 

Music         .  

Procrastination 


S3S 
616 


COOK,  ELIZA. 
England,  b.  1817. 

Englishman,  The 

"  Hang  up  his  harp  ;  he  '11  wake  no  more  ' 
Old  Arm-Chair,  The  .... 

COOKE,  PHILIP  P. 

Berkley  Co.,  Va.,  1816-1850. 

Florence  Vane 


COOPER,  JAMES  FENIMORE. 

Burlington,  N.  J.,  1789-1851. 
Brigantine,  My  .         .         . 

COTTON,  CHARLES. 

England,  1631- 1687. 
Contentation 
Retirement     .... 


CORNWALL,  BARRY. 
See  Procter,  B.  W. 

COTTON,  NATHANIEL. 

'.nd.  T721  -  1788. 
The  Fireside 


COWLEY,  ABRAHAM. 
England,  r6i8-  1667. 

The  Chronicle        .... 
The  Grasshopper  (Translation) 

COWPER,  WILLIAM. 
England,  1731-1800. 

Boadicea 

Contradiction 

Cricket,  The 

Duelling 

Freeman,  The         . 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  " 

Happy  Man,  The  .... 

Humanity 

My  Country 

My  Mother's  Picture 


443 

IS' 

28 


233 

479 

S69 
572 

666 
'35 


S8 

3S5 


435 
594 
356 
599 
461 
282 
57° 
598 
44-' 
iS 


Nightingale  and  Glow- Worm,  The  .              .  671 

Oaths 594 

Royal  George,  On  the  Loss  of  the         .        .  484 

Slavery 462 

"  Sweet  stream,  that  winds  "  ...  21 
Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander 

Selkirk 573 

Whitefield 718 

Winter 318 

Winter  Walk  at  Noon 318 

CRABBE,  GEORGE. 
England,  1754  - 1832. 

Approach  of  Age,  The 226 

Mourner,  The 152 

Peasant,  The 570 

Quack  Medicines 600 

CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE. 

Alexandria,  D.  C,  b.  1813. 

Thought 566 

CRASHAW,  RICHARD. 

England,  1600  - 1650. 

Music's  Duel 350 

Supposed  Mistress,  Wishes  for  the       .         .  59 

Two  Men  went  up  to  the  Temple  to  pray        .    259 

CRAWFORD,  MRS. 
Ireland. 

We  parted  in  Silence 151 

CROLY,  GEORGE. 

Ireland,  1780  - 1860. 

Genius  of  Death,  The  .....  613 
Leonidas,  The  Death  of  ...  .  430 
Pericles  and  Aspasia 430 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN. 

Scotland,  1784-1842. 

"  Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie  "  121 

Poet's  Bridal-Day  Song,  The    ....  127 

Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea,  A         .        .  478 

CURRAN,  JOHN  PHILPOT. 

Ireland,  1750  - 1817. 

Poor  Man's  Labor,  The 426 

CUTTER,  GEORGE  W. 

America. 

Song  of  the  Lightning 654 

DANA,  RICHARD  HENRY. 

Cambridge,  Mass.,  b.  1787. 

Husband  and  Wife's  Grave,  The      .        .        .    217 

Pleasure- Boat,  The 519 

Soul,  The 267 

DANIEL,  SAMUEL. 
England,  1562  - 1619. 

Love  is  a  Sickness 55 

DARLEY,  GEORGE. 

Ireland,  1785-  1849. 

Gambols  of  Children,  The  .  .  .  .11 
Song  of  the  Summer  Winds .         .         .         .         311 

DAVIS,  THOMAS. 

Ireland,  1814-  1845. 

Banks  of  the  Lee,  The          ....  126 

Flower  of  Finae,  The 200 

Maire  Bhan  Astor 130 

Sack  of  Baltimore,  The 687 

Welcome,  The 72 

DECKER,  THOMAS. 

England,  d,  1639. 

Happy  Heart,  The 4'9 

DE  VERE,  SIR  AUBREY. 

Irel-ind.  d.  T846. 

Early  Friendship 32 

Her  Shadow 109 

DIBDIN,  CHARLES. 

England,  1745-1814. 

Heaving  of  the  Lead 479 

Sir  Sidney  Smith 489 

DIBDIN,  THOMAS. 

England,  1771-1841. 

All  's  Well 479 

Snug  Little  Island,  The         ....         443 

DICKENS,  CHARLES. 
England,  1812-1870. 

Ivy  Green,  The 37° 


qa- 


t^r~ 


— n* 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XI 


DICKSON,  DAVID. 

England,  1583  -1602. 

New  Jerusalem,  The 

DIMOND,  WILLIAM. 
England,  1800- 1837. 

Mariner's  Dream,  The  . 

DOBELL,  SYDNEY. 

England,  b.  1824.  _ 

Absent  Soldier  Son,  The 
Home,  wounded 
How  's  my  Boy  ?    . 
Milkmaid's  Song,  The 
Tommy  's  dead 


257 


484 


142 
242 
490 

95 
226 


DODDRIDGE,  PHILIP. 
England,  1702- 1751. 

"Amazing,  beauteous  change  !"   . 

"  Eternal  Source  of  every  joy  " 

"  O  happy  day  that  fixed  my  choice  "  . 

DORSET,  CHARLES  SACKVILLE,  EARL  OF. 

England,  1637  -  1709. 

Fire  of  Love,  The 

DOWLAND,  JOHN. 
England,  about  1600. 

Sleep  ........ 


2»4 

279 
275 


56 


575 


DOYLE,  SIR  FRANCIS  HASTINGS. 

England,  b.  i3io. 

Private  of  the  Buffs,  The       ....         385 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN. 
New  York  City,  1795-  1820. 

American  Flat;,  The 447 


Culprit  Fay,  The 


DRAYTON,  MICHAEL. 

England,  1563-1631. 

Ballad  of  Agincourt,  The 

"  Come,  let  us  kisse  and  parte  " 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM. 

Scotland,  1585  -'1640. 

Ascension  of  Christ,  The 

Sonnet 

Thrush,  The  .... 


658 


3S6 
150 


277 
253 
344 


DRYDEN,  JOHN. 
England,  1631 -1700. 

Ah,  how  sweet  ! 56 

Alexander's  Feast,  or  the  Power  of  Music        ,    585 
Eleonora    ........    196 

Portrait  of  John  Milton,  Lines  written  under 

the  .        . 
Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  A 
Og 


Zimri 7 


701 
5S8 
719 


DUFFERIN,  LADY. 

Ireland. 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant 

DUNLOP, . 

Scot]  md. 

"  Dinna  ask  me  "  . 


203 


7') 


DURYEA,  REV.  WILLIAM  RANKIN. 

A  Song  for  the  "  Hearth  and  Home"  .         .         134 

DWIGHT,  JOHN  SULLIVAN. 

America,  b,  1813. 

"  Sweet  is  the  pleasure  " 419 

DWIGHT,  TIMOTHY. 

Northampton,  Mass.,  1752-1817. 

Columbia 445 

DYER,  JOHN. 
Wales,  1700- 1758, 

Aurelia,  To 309 

Grongar  Hill 307 

EASTMAN,  CHARLES  GAMAGE. 
Burlington,  Vt.,  1816 -1861. 

Snow-Storm,  A 320 

EDWARDS,  Miss. 

"  I  iive  me  three  grains  of  com,  mother  "  .        .    45S 

ELLIOTT,  EBENEZER  (The  Com- Law  Rhymer). 
Enel  iii.  1 ,   1  - 1849. 

Burns 7<yi 

1'     t's  Epitaph,  A 705 

Spring 308 


EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO. 

Boston,  Mass.,  b.  1803. 

Borrowing g2c 

Boston  Hymn        ......  460 

Brahma 6,4. 

Heri,  Cras,  Hodie 6^5 

Heroism     ........  625 

Humble-Bee,  To  the 541. 

Justice 259 


643 

62S 

625 

625 
366 
62? 


Letters 

Northman  . 

Poet        .... 

Quatrains  and  Fragments 

Rhodora,  The 

Sea,  The     . 

Snow-Storm,  The 3^ 

FABER,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM. 

England,  b.  1800. 

"  O,  how  the  thought  of  God  attracts  "        .        284 

FALCONER,  WILLIAM. 

Scotland,  1730-1769. 

Shipwreck,  The 48c 

FANSHAWE,  CATHERINE. 

England. 
Enigma 


FENNER,  CORNELIUS  GEORGE. 

America,  1822-  1847. 

Gulf- Weed         .... 


FERGUSON,  SAMUEL. 

Ireland,  b.  1805. 

Forging  of  the  Anchor,  The  . 
Pretty  Girl  of  Loch  Dan,  The 

FIELDING,  HENRY. 

England,  1707 -1754. 

The  Maiden's  Choice        . 


FIELDS,  JAMES  T. 

Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  b.  1820. 
Dirge  for  a  Young  Girl 
Tempest,  The    . 


FLETCHER,  GILES. 

England,  1588-1623. 

"  Drop,  drop,  slow  tears  "... 

FOSDICK,  WILLIAM  W. 

Cincinnati,  O.,  b.  1822. 

Maize,  The 

FREILIGRATH,  FERDINAND. 

Germany,  b.  i8ro. 

The  Lion's  Ride  (Translation)      , 

FRENEAU,  PHILIP. 

New  York  City,  1752-1832. 
Indian  Death-Song    . 

GAUTIER. 

France. 

Departure  of  the  Swallows  (Translation) 
GAY,  JOHN. 

England,  168S-1732. 

Black-eyed  Susan       .... 

GERHARDT,  PAUL. 

The  Dying  Saviour        .... 

GILBERT,  W.  S. 
England. 

Yarn  of  the  "Nancy  Bell,"  The*      . 

GLAZIER,  WILLIAM  BELCHER. 
Hallowed,  Me.,  b.  1827. 

Cape-Cottage  at  Sunset 

GOETHE,  JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON. 
1  1  <■ 
P'isher,  The 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER. 

Ireland.   1725-  1774. 

Deserted  Village,  The   .... 

Great  Britain 

Holland 

Home         •••••.. 
Italy  and  Switzerland     .... 

GOULD,  HANNAH  FLAGG. 

Lani  a  iter,  \  t. 

Frost,  The 


59i 


474 


424 
22 


60 


190 
481 


258 
362 

339 

215 

347 

]45 
276 

735 
300 
670 


545 
536 
5  '■' ' 
'37 

53^ 


633 


tS- 


~w 


a- 


Xll 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


GRAHAM    JAMES,  EARL  OF  MONTROSE. 
Sco  1  tn  .    1012  -  i  150. 

My  dear  and  only  Love  ....  60 

GRAHAM  OF  GARTMORE. 
Scuil  md. 

"  If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please  "         .        .      47 

GRAHAME,  JAMES. 
Scotland,  17  '5  -  t    5^. 

Sabbath,  The 285 

GRANT,  SIR  ROBERT. 
Scotland,  1785-1838. 

Litany 263 

"  When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view"     .         274 

GRAY,  DAVID. 

England.  1838-1861. 

"  Die  down,  O  dismal  day "       .         .         .  .    304 

Homesick 142 

'•  O  winter,  wilt  thou  never,  never  go  ?  "  .  .    321 

GRAY,  THOMAS. 

Engl  ind,  1716-1771. 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard         .        219 
Spring 308 

GREENE,  ROBERT. 
Engl.tn  1,  1560-  1592. 

"  Ah  !  what  is  love?" 55 

GREGORY  THE  GREAT,  ST. 
Italy.  540-604. 

Darkness  is  thinning  (Translation)    .        .         .    258 

GRIFFIN,  GERALD. 

Ireland,  1803-  [S40. 

Gille  Machree 133 

HABINGTON,  WILLIAM. 

England,  1605-1645. 

Castara       . 44 

HALLECK,   FITZ-GREENE. 
Guilford,  Conn..  T790-1869. 

Alnwick  Castle 528 

Burns 706 

Fortune  ........  590 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake 32 

Marco  Bozzaris      ......  450 

Weehawken         .......  550 

HALPIXK.  CHARLES  G.  (Miles  O'Reilly). 
Ireland   12  -t85i. 

Irish  Astronomy      ......         730 

Quakerdom  —  The  Formal  Call         ...      77 

HARTE,   FRANCIS  BRET. 
America.  '837. 

Chiquita 765 

I  low's  Flat 764 

Heathen  Chinee,  The 728 

Pliocene  Skull,  To  the 731 

HARTE,  WALTER. 

Wal    ^.  1700-  17.4. 

A  Soliloquy 355 

HAY,  JOHN 

Cin  irmari,  O.,  b.  1840. 

Little  Breeches 757 


HEBFR,  REGINALD. 

1  \-  \ 

"■  If  thou  wert  by  mv  side,  my  love  ' 
"  Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  " 

HEDGES,  JOHN. 

Engi  til. 

Will,  The 

HETNE,  HEINRICH. 

G  r  11  inv    1779-  l8',.>. 

Fisher's  Cottage,  The  (Translation) 
Water-Fay,  The  (Translation)  . 

HEMANS,  FELICIA  DOROTHEA. 

Eng  <n  1    1-  ,1- 

Bernardo  del  Carpio 

"Calm  011  the  bosom  of  thy  God" 

Casabianca      ..... 

C'tur  de  Lion  at  the  Bier  of  his  Father 

Coronation  of  Inez  de  Castro,  The 

Homes  of  England,  The    . 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  The 

Meeting  of  the  Ships,  The 

Roman  Girl's  Song 

Treasures  of  the  Deep,  The 


128 
180 


736 


• 

529 
.  670 

213 

• 

•  177 
487 

:r  . 

.  212 

214 

• 

•  1.37 
461 

•   34 

535 

•  477 

HERBERT,  GEORGE. 
Wales,  1593- 1  32. 

Employment  .... 
Gifts  of  God,  The 

Life 

Praise 

Said  I  not  so  . 

Sweet  Day 

"  Sweetest  Saviour,  if  my  soul " 

HERRICK,  ROBERT. 

England,  1591  -  1674. 

"  A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress  " 
Daffodils  .... 

"  Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree  " 
"  Go,  happy  Rose  !  "      . 
Holy  Spirit,  The 
Kiss,  The        .... 

Lent,  A  True      .... 

"  Sweet,  be  not  proud  " 

Time   ...... 

Violets     ..... 

"  Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes  " 

HERVEY,  THOMAS  KIBBLE. 

England,  1799- 1859. , 

"  Adieu,  adieu  !  our  dream  of  love  " 
Love 


HEYWOOD,  THOMAS.       , 
England,  about  1600. 

"  Pack  clouds  away  " 

HILL,  THOMAS. 

New  Brunswick,  N.  J.,  b.  1818. 

Bobolink,  The 

HILLHOUSE,  JAMES  A. 

New  Haven,  Conn.,  1789-1841. 

"Trembling  before  thine  awful  throne" 

HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO. 

New  York  City,  b.  1806. 

Monterey 


HOGG,  JAMES. 

Scotland,  1772-1835. 

Jock  Johnstone,  the  Tinkler 
Kilmeny      .... 
When  the  Kye  come  Hame  . 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT 

Belchertown,  Mass.,  b.  1819. 

Cradle  Song  (Bitter-Sweel) 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 
Cambridge,  Mass..  b.  1809. 
Comet,  The    . 
Contentment 
Evening  .... 
Hymn  of  Peace 
Katydid  .... 
Last  Leaf,  The   . 
Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting 
One-Hoss  Shay,  The 
Ploughman,  The     . 
Questions  and  Answers 
Under  the  Violets  . 

HOME,  JOHN. 
Scotland,  1724-1808. 
Norval 


257 
59i 
610 
261 
265 
180 
273 


593 
369 
361 
73 
263 

78 
260 

58 
617 
367 

41 


145 
121 


298 


345 


277 


406 


500 

665 

82 


HOLTY,  LUDWIG. 

Germany,  1748- 1776. 

Winter  Song  (Translation)     . 

HOOD,  THOMAS. 

Engl  ind,  1798-1845. 

Autumn       .... 
Bridge  of  Sighs,  The 
Diversity  of  Fortune  . 
Double  Blessedness 
Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,  The 
Faithless  Nelly  Gray 
Faithless  Sally  Brown 
"  Farewell,  Life  I " 
Flowers       .... 

Gold! 

Heir,  The  Lost  . 

Infant  Son,  To  my 

"  I  remember,  I  remember" 

Morning  Meditations 


757 

568 

739 
373 
356 
225 

733 
743 
421 
725 

181 


502 


317 


3i6 
250 
244 
758 
697 

747 
746 

2.39 

364 

600 

S 

8 

19 

7'4i 


&~ 


-ff 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


ft 


Xlll 


No 

Nocturnal  Sketch 

Ode  to  Rae  Wilson,  Esquire 

Ruth  ... 

Sally  Simpkin's  Lament 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The 

Spring  it  is  cheery 

Water  Lady,   The 

"  We  watched  her  breathing  " 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD. 

New  i  ork  City.  b.  181  i. 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic   . 
Royal  Ouest,  The 

HOWITT,  MARY. 
Engl  ind,  b.  idoo. 

Broom- Flower,  The 
Use  of  Flowers,  The 


HOWITT,  WILLIAM. 
England,  b.  1795. 

Departure  of  the  Swallow,  The 
June  Day,  A      .         ... 


HOWLAND,  MRS. 
America. 

Picket-Guard,  The 


HOYT,  RALPH. 
America. 

Old         .... 
Snow.  —  A  Winter  Sketch 

HUGHES,  DR.  R. 
A  Doubt 


HUME,  ALEXANDER. 
Scotland,  1711-1776. 

Story  of  a  Summer  Day,  The        . 

HUNT,  LEIGH. 
England,  1-84-  1859. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  .... 

Child,  during  Sickness,  To  a    . 
Cupid  swallowed    ..... 

Fairies'  Song 

Glove  and  1  he  Lions,  The 
Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  The 

Jaffar 

Love- Letters  made  of  Flowers 
Trumpets  of  Doolkarnein,  The 

INGELOW,  JEAN. 

Ell^l    Hi     I. 

High-Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire 
Maiden  with  a  Milking-Pail,  A    . 
Seven  Times  One       .... 
Seven  Times  Two  .... 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL. 
England,  1  4, 

Charles  XI I 


JONES,  SIR  WILLIAM. 
England,  1746-17 14. 

"  What  constitutes  a  state?"     . 

JON  SON,  HEN. 
Engl  111  I,  1574 -1537. 

"  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes  "    , 
Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H.     . 
Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke 
Freedom  in  Dress      .... 
Noble  Nature,  The         .         .         .         . 
Pleasures  of  Heaven,  The 

Those  Eyes 

Vision  of  Beauty,  A  .         .         . 


KEATS,  JOHN. 

I  .  .  -     32r. 

Eve  of  St   Agnes,  The. 
Fairy  Song         ... 
Grasshopper  and  Cricket.  The 
La  belle  I )  ime  sans  Merci 
( Me  on  a  Grecian  I'm  . 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale 
Realm  of  t  ancy,  The   . 


KEBLE,  JOHN. 

Jin: i.  Ii    1     . 

Example 


317 
763 
719 

74 
746 
248 
225 
670 
iSS 


462 
36 


366 
37° 


347 
312 


38i 


229 
320 


59 


372 


582 

>5 

66 

655 

574 

356 

58i 

67 

384 


20S 

93 

'4  I 
54' 


709 


459 


608 
709 
709 
593 
565 
180 

57 
4-' 


"7 
657 
356 
669 

6.34 
-■  jo 
629 


574 


KEMBLE,  FRANCES  ANNE. 
England,  b.  1811. 

Absence 157 

KEN,  THOMAS,  BISHOP. 
England,  1637-1711. 

Evening  Hymn 294 

KENNEDY,  CRAMMOND. 
Scotland,  b.  1841. 

Greenwood  Cemetery         .....    269 

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT. 

Frederick  Co  ,  Md.,  1779-  1843. 

Star-spangled  Banner,  The    ....        447 

KING,  HENRY. 

England,  1591  -  1669. 

Dirge,  The 2S3 

Life ,87 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES. 
England,  b.  i8rg. 

A  Rough  Rhyme  on  a  Rough  Matter        .         .  198 

Fishermen,  The 483 

Merry  Lark,  The 210 

"  O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home  "       .  483 

KINNEY,  COATES. 

Penn  Van,  N.  Y.,  b.  1826. 

Rain  on  the  Roof 593 

KLOPSTOCK. 

Germany,  1724- 1803. 

Hermann  and  Thusnelda        ....         435 

KNOWLES,  JAMES  SHERIDAN. 

Ireland,  b.  1784. 

Switzerland 437 

KORNER,  CHARLES  THEODORE. 

Germany,  1791-1813. 

Good  Night  (Translation)       ....  426 

Men  and  Boys  (Translation)      ....  452 

Sword  Song,  The  (Translation)      .         .         .  399 

KRUMMACHER. 

Germany,  T774-  1837. 

Alpine  Heights  (Translation)     ....    332 
Moss  Rose,  The  (Translation)       .         .         .         365 

LAMB,  CHARLES. 
England,  1775 -1834. 

Farewell  to  Tobacco,  A 4:5 

Hester ,  194 

Housekeeper,  The 759 

Newton's  Principia 759 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The 230 

LAMB,  MARY. 
England,  1765- 1847. 

Choosing  a  Name 4 

LANDON,  L7ETITIA  ELIZABETH. 
England,  1802  -  1838. 

Female  Convict,  The 215 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood       ....  9 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE. 

England,  1775-  1864. 

Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon     ....  67S 

Macaulay,  To 702 

Maid's  Lament,  The 200 

One  Gray  Hair,  The 608 

LELAND,  CHARLES  G. 

The  Fisher's  Cottage  ....    529 

The  Water  Fay      .        .  '  .        .        .        670 

LEONID AS 

Alexandria,  ~q-  129. 

The  Mother's  Stratagem  (Translation)    .         .      13 

LEVER,  CHARLES. 

Ireland. 

Widow  Malone 105 

LEWIS,  GEORGE  MONK. 

Engl  mi  1. 

Maniac,  The 236 

LEYDEN,  JOHN. 

Scotl   n  1    1  1811. 

I  taisy,  The 368 

Noontide •    299 

S  1'  1,. ah  Morning,  The 29S 


EB— 


4? 


c& 


XIV 


INDEX  OF  AUTHOKS. 


LOCKHART,  JOHN  GIBSON. 
Scotland,  1792-  [854. 

Broadswords  of  Scotland,  The  , 
Lord  of  Butrago,  The     . 
Zara's  Ear-Kings 


LODGE,  THOMAS. 

England,  1550-1025. 

Rosalind's  Complaint 
Rosaline     . 


LOGAN,  JOHN. 

Scotland,  174S-1788. 

Cuckoo,  To  the 

"  Thy  braes  were  bonny  "      .         .         . 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH. 
Portland,  Me.,  b.  1807. 

Carillon 

C  hildren's  Hour,  The  .... 

Daybreak 

Divina  Commedia 

Evangeline  in  the  Prairie  .... 
Footsteps  of  Angels        .... 

God's-Acre 

Hymn  to  the  Night        .... 

Maidenhood 

Peace  in  Acadie 

Prelude  ( I  'oices  of  the  Night)  . 
Psalm  of  Life,  A   .         .         .         * 

Rain  in  Summer 

Rainy  Day,  The 

Reaper  and  the  Flowers,  The   . 
Resignation   ...... 

Retribution        ...... 

Sea-Weed 

Snow-Flakes      ...... 

Village  Blacksmith,  The 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD. 

England,  1618-  1658. 

Althea  from  Prison,  To 

Lucasta,To         ...... 

Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  Wars,  To 

LOVER,  SAMUEL. 
Ireland,  1797-  1866. 

Angel's  Whisper,  The       .... 
Father  Land  and  Mother  Tongue 
Low-backed  Car,  The        .... 
Rory  O'More  ..... 

Widow  Machree        ..... 


406 

404 

96 


39 


342 
201 


577 

24 

297 

527 
55° 
'77 
178 

3°4 
21 

548 
566 
S82 

311 

228 
184 

I7S 

614 

473 
320 
419 


48 

'S3 
145 


7 

59i 

5" 

107 

75 


LOWE,  JOHN. 

Scotland.  1750  -  1798. 
Mary's  Drearn 


LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  l>.  1819. 

Abraham  Lincoln  .... 
Auf  Wiedersehen !     .        •        .         . 
Courtin',  The         .... 
First  Snow- Fall,  The         •        • 
H.  W.  L  ,  To         .... 
Rhcecus      ...... 

Sonnets 

Summer  Storm  .         .         .         .        . 
What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks   . 
Winter's  Evening  Hymn  to  my  Fire 
Yussouf 


LOWELL,   MARIA  WHITE. 
Watertown,  Mass.,  1821-1853. 
The  Moming-Glory   . 

LUTHER,  MARTIN. 

Germany.  1483- 1546. 

"  A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God" 
Martyrs'  Hymn,  The 


LYLY,  JOHN. 

England.  1554-1600. 

Cupid  and  Campaspe     .... 

LYTTELTON,  LORD  GEORGE. 

England.  1703-1773. 

"  Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  " 

LYTTON,  LORD  EDWARD  BULWER. 

Claude  Melnotte's  Apology  and  Defence 


7'4 
96 
102 
184 
702 
642 
126 

3'3 
769 
136 

581 


271 
264 


65 


55 


159 


LYTTON,  ROBERT  BULWER  {Owen  Meredith). 
England,  b.  1831. 

Aux  Italiens 170 

The  Chess-Board  ......  77 

MACAULAY,  LORD. 
England,  1800- 1859. 

Horatius  at  the  Bridge 431 

Naseby 438 

Moncontour        .    ■      . 438 

MAC-CARTHY,  DENIS  FLORENCE. 

Ireland. 

Alice 123 

Ireland 457 

"  Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil !"....  7o 

Labor  Song        . 425 

Love  and  Time      ......  66 

Summer  Longings 3c 5 

MACKAY,  CHARLES. 
Scotland,  b.  1812. 

Small  Beginnings 592 

"Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds  "     ....    268 
Tubal  Cain     .......        376 

MACLELLAN,  REV.   MR., 

Poor  Man  and  the  Fiend,  The  ....    418 

MAG1NN,  WILLIAM.      - 

Ireland,  1793- 1842. 

Waiting  for  the  Grapes 42 

MAHONY,  FRANCIS  {Rather  Prout). 
Ireland,  1805- 1866. 

Bells  of  Shandon,  The 540 

Malbrouck  (Translation)         ....         405 

MANGAN,  JAMES  CLARENCE. 
England. 

Sentimental  Gardener,  The  (Translation)         .    727 
Sunken  City,  The  (Translation)    .         .         .        635 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER. 

England,  I564-I593._ 

Shepherd  to  his  Love,  The        .         .        .        -73 
MARSDEN. 

England,  1754- 1836. 

What  is  Time? 617 

MARTEN,   HENRY. 

England,  b. ,  d.  1681. 

Verses  written  in  Prison     .....    702 

MARVELL,  ANDREW. 
England,  1620  - 1678. 

Death  of  the  White  Fawn      ....  23S 

Drop  of  Dew,  A         .....  324 

Song  of  the  Emigrants  in  Bermuda        .         .  47S 

"  The  spacious  firmament  on  high  "          .  .    280 

MARY. 

Queen  of  Hungary,  d.  1558. 

A  Prayer 262 

MASSEY,  GERALD. 
England,  b.  1828. 

"O,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear "      .         .         .    124 
Our  wee  White  Rose     .....  16 

McMASTER,  GUY  HUMPHREY. 
England,  1829. 

The  Old  Continentals 446 

MEDLEY,  SAMUEL. 
.    England. 

"  Mortals,  awake  1  with  angels  join  "        .        .    272 

MEEK,  ALEXANDER  B. 
Alabama. 

Balaklava       .......         406 

MESSENGER,  ROBERT  HINCHLEY. 

Boston,  Mass.,  b.  1807. 

Old  Fogy,  The 609 

MICKLE,  WILLIAM  JULIUS. 
Scotland,  1734-1788. 

Sailor's  Wife,  The 4S8 

MILLER,  JOHANN  MARTIN. 

Germany. 

The  Sentimental  Gardener  (Translation)       .         727 

MILLER,  WILLIAM. 

Scotland. 

Willie  Winkie 5 

MILMAN,  HENRY  HART. 

England,  1791. 

Hebrew  Wedding  ......         124 

Jewish  Hymn  in  Jerusalem       ....    211 


I — ! 


a- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


xv 


■a 


MILNES,  RICHARD  MONCKTON. 

England,  b.  1809. 

London  Churches 


MILTON,  JOHN. 
England,  1J03-1674. 

Abdiel 

Adam  describing  Eve 

Adam's  Morning  Hymn  in  Paradise 

Adam  to  Eve 

Blindness,  On  his  .... 

"  Comus,"  Scenes  from     . 

Cromwell,  To  the  Lord-General    . 

Evening  in  Paradise . 

II  Penseroso  . 

Invocation  to  Light   .... 

L'  Allegro 

May  Morning     . 

Samson  Agonistes. 

Selections  from  "  Paradise  Lost  "     . 

MITFORD,  MARY  RUSSELL. 

Engl  ind.  1786-1853. 

Rienzi  to  the  Romans 

MOIR,  DAVID  MACBETH. 
Scotland,  1798-  [851. 

Casa  Wappy 


MONTGOMERY,  JAMES. 
Scotland,  1771-1854. 

Birds 

Burns,  Robert 

Coral  Insect,  The 

Daisy,  The 

Grave,  The     ....... 

"  Make  way  for  Liberty  I" 

My  Country 

Night  

Ocean,  The 

"  O,  where  shall  rest  be  found  ?  " 

Parted  Friends 

Pelican,  The      ...... 

Sea  Life 

"  Servant  of  God,  well  done"   .    "    . 

MOORE,  CLEMENT  CLARKE. 
New  York  City,  1779-1852. 

St.  Nicholas,  A  Visit  from 

MOORE,  THOMAS. 
Ireland,  177)    18^2. 

Acbar  and  Nourmahal        .... 

"Alas!  how  light  a  cause  may  move"  . 

"  As  by  the  shore,  at  break  of  day  " 

"  As  slow  our  ship  "       ..... 

"Believe   me,    if  all  those  endearing  youn 
charms  "...... 

Birth  of  Portraiture,  The        .... 

Black  and  Blue  Eyes         .... 

Canadian  Boat  Song,  A  .... 

"  Come,  rest  in  this  bosom  "     . 

Echoes 

"  Farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter"     . 

"  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me".         . 

"  Go  where  glory  waits  thee  "  . 

"  I  knew  by  the  smoke  that  so  trrncefully  curled 

Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swnmp,  The 

"  Lit  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old  "    . 

Linda  to  Hafed       ...... 

Love's  Young  Dream 

"  Mary,  1  believe  thee  true"         . 

Minstrel  Boy,  The      . 

Nonsense 

"1  lit  in  the  stilly  night  "    . 

"  O,  breathe  not  his  name  " 

Origin  of  the  Harp,  The    .... 

Potato,  The   .  

"  Sound  the  loud  timbrel  "... 

Spring  

Syria 

"The  bird  let  loose  " 

"The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls" 
The  Young  May  Moon.        •  • 

"  Those  evening  bells  "     .... 

"Thou  an,  0  God  !  " 

"  ' T  is  the  last  rose  of  summer  " 

Vale  of  Cashmere,  The    .... 

Verses  written  in  an  Album 


246 


290 
122 

26  r 

13° 

2O5 

637 
710 

3°4 
604 
298 

5«3 
310 

235 
23-2 


436 


191 


351 
7°5 

475 

a63 
187 

436 
429 

303 

47 1 

263 

32 
352 
474 
265 


632 


85 
169 

45' 
14S 

114 

67 
46 

5'9 
7i 
55 

197 
68 

396 
136 
643 
45  5 
160 
167 
168 
455 
7*9 
227 

455 
■7-! 
363 
283 
3°9 
337 
259 
455 
70 
228 

2S, 
36S 

337 
45 


MORRIS,  GEORGE  P. 
Philadelphia,  Pa.,  1802  - 1864. 

My  Mother's  Bible 

Woodman,  spare  that  Tree    . 

MORRIS,  WILLIAM. 
England. 

Atalanta  Victorious 

Atalanta  Conquered       .... 
Pygmalion  and  the  Image 

MOTHERWELL,  WILLIAM. 

Scotland,  1797  - 1835. 

Jeanie  Morrison     ..... 

"  My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie  "     . 

"  They  come  !  the  merry  summer  months  " 

MUELLER,  WILLIAM. 

Germany,  1794 -1827. 

The  Sunken  City  (Translation) 

MUHLENBERG,  WILLIAM  A.,  D.  D. 

New  York  City. 

"  1  would  not  live  alway  "     . 

MULOCK,  DINAH  MARIA. 
England,  b.  1826. 

Alma  River,  By  the  . 
"Buried  to-day  "  . 
Dead  Czar  Nicholas,  The 
Her  Likeness 
Lancashire  Doxology,  A   . 
Mercenary  Marriage,  A 
Now  and  Afterwards  . 

Only  a  Woman 
Philip,  my  King        . 


NAIRN,  LADY. 

Scotland,  1760-  1845. 

Laird  o'  Cockpen,  The 

Land  o'  the  Leal,  The 

NASH,  THOMAS. 
England,  1558 -1600. 

"Spring,  the  sweet  Spring"  . 

NEALE,  J.   M. 

"Darkness  is  thinning"   (Translation   from 
St.  Gregory  the  Great)        .... 

NEELE,  HENRY. 
England,  1798-  1828. 

"  Moan,  moan,  ye  dying  gales" 

NEWELL,  R.  H.  {Orpheus  C.  Kerr). 

Poems  received  in  Response  to  an  Advertised 
Call  for  a  National  Anthem   . 

NEWTON,  JOHN. 
Engl  in  1,  1725  -  1807. 

"  How  sweet  the  name  of  Jesus  sounds  !  "  . 
"  Mary  to  her  Saviour's  tomb  " 

NICHOLS,  MRS    REBECCA  S. 
i  ,rei  nwich,  x.  I. 

Philosopher  Toad,  The 

NOEL,  THOMAS. 
England. 

Pauper's  Drive,  The 

NORRIS,  JOHN. 
England,  16-7  -  1711. 

My  Little  Saint 

NORTH,   KIT. 

See  John  Wilson. 

NORTON,  CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  S.,  HON. 
1 

Arab  to  his  favorite  Steed,  The     .         .        . 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine  ..... 

King  of  Denmark's  Ride,  The 

Love  not     ........ 

Mother's  Heart,  The    .... 

O'BRIEN,  FITZ  JAMES. 
Irel  mil.  d.  1 

Kane . 


178 
28 


83 
83 
88 


154 
174 
310 


635 


1  So 


156 

175 
713 

46 

425 
62 

177 

165 

3 


i°3 

181 


3°9 


258 


224 


774 


272 
277 


672 


252 


48 


5'7 
383 
207 

235 
1  y 


O'KF.EF  E.JOHN. 

Ireland,  1747     [833. 

"  1  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray  " 

OPIE,  AMELIA 

lid.    171.1  -  1853. 

1  liphan  Boy's  Tale,  The 


715 


7S4 


143 


'ti    - 


# 


a- 


XVI 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


O'REILLY,  MILES.     See  Charles  G.  Halpine. 

OSGOOD,  FRANCES  SARGENT. 
i     iti  ii,  Mass.,  iyi2-  1850. 

To  Labor  is  to  Pray 

OSGOOD,  KATE  PUTNAM. 
Fryeburg,  Me.,  b.  184s. 

Driving  Home  the  Cows  ..... 

PALMER,  JOHN  WILLIAMSON. 
Baltimore,  Md.,  b.  1825. 

"For  Charlie's  sake" 

Thread  and  Song 

PALMER,  WILLIAM  PITT. 
Stockbridge,  Mass..  b.  1805. 

The  Smack  in  School 

PARSONS,  THOMAS  WILLIAM. 

liootun,  Mas:,.,  b.  1819. 

Groomsman  to  his  Mistress,  The .        .        . 

PARNELL,  THOMAS. 
England,  1079- 1717. 

"  When  your  beauty  appears"  .        . 

PATMORE,  COVENTRY. 
Engl  md,  b.  1823. 

Mistress,  The 

Sly  Thoughts 

Sweet  Meeting  of  Desires         .... 

PAYNE,  JOHN  HOWARD. 
New  York  City,  1792 -1852. 

Home,  sweet  Home 

Lucius  Junius    Brutus's    Oration   over    the 
Body  of  Lucretia 


42S 


375 


178 
23 


25 


73 


77 


114 

78 
96 


PERCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES- 
Berlin.  Conn.,  1795-1856. 

May        . 

Coral  Grove,  The  

PERCY,  FLORENCE  (Mrs.  Elizabeth  A kers\ 

btn  ng,  Me.,  b.  1832. 

Left  behind 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  Mother         .... 

PERCY,  THOMAS. 
England,  1728-1811. 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  The    .... 
"  O  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me  ?  " 

PETTEE,  G.  W. 
Canada. 

Sleigh  Song 

PFEFFEL. 

Germany,  1736- 1809. 

Nobleman  and  the  Pensioner,  The   . 

PHILIPS,  AMBROSE. 
England,  1675- 1749. 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney 

PHILOSTRATUS. 

Greece. 

"  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes  "  (Transl.) 

PIERPONT.  JOHN. 

Litchfield,  Conn.,  1785 -1866. 

My  Child 

Not  on  the  Battle-Field         .... 
Warren's  Address 


PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE. 

Ann  1   olis,  Md.,  1802-1828. 

A  Health 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN. 
Baltimore.  Md.,  1811-1849. 

Annabel  Lee      .... 
Annie,  For     ..... 
Bells,  The  ..... 
Raven,  The 

POLLOK,  ROBERT. 

Scotland,  1799-1827. 

Byron     ...... 

POPE,  ALEXANDER. 

England.  [688     1744. 

Author's  Miseries,  The 
Belinda       ..... 
T)ving  Christian  to  his  Soul,  The 
Epistle  to  Robert,  Earl  of  Oxford, 
Fame                ..... 
Future,  The        .... 
Greatness 


133 
°93 


310 

476 


159 

190 


87 

71 


5i8 

398 

7 

608 


18s 
379 
446 


39 


205 
i8g 
538 
652 


706 


602 

43 
262 
709 
594 
6i5 
594 


Happiness  . 

Lines  and  Couplets 

Man  of  Ross,  The 

Nature's  Chain 

Poet's  Friend,  The    . 

Quiet  Life,  The 

Reason  and  Instinct  . 

Ruling  Passion,  The 

Scandal 

Sporus,  —  Lord  Hervey 

Timon 

Toilet,  The    . 

Universal  Prayer,  The 


PRAED,  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH. 

England,  1802-1835. 

Belle  of  the  Ball,  The  .        .        .        . 

Charade 

Vicar,  The 


PRIEST,  NANCY  AMELIA  WOODBURY. 

America,  1834-1870. 

Over  the  River 

PRINGLE,  THOMAS. 
Scotland,  1789-1834. 

"  Afar  in  the  desert "  .... 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW. 

England,  1664- 1721. 

Lady's  Looking-GIass,  The  .        . 

PROCTER,  ADELAIDE^ANNE. 

Engl  ind,  1826-1864. 

'Doubting  Heart,  A 

Woman's  Question,  A   . 

PROCTER,  BRYAN  W.  (Barry  Cornwall). 
England,  b.  1798. 

Address  to  the  Ocean    .... 

Blood  Horse,  The 

"  For  love's  sweet  sake  "... 

Golden  Girl,  A 

History  of  a  Life 

Hunter's  Song,  The 

Mother's  last  Song,  The 

Owl,  The 

"Peace!     What  can  tears  avail  ?" 
Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife,  The   . 

Sea,  The 

"Sit  down,  sad  soul  "         .        . 

"  Softly  woo  away  her  breath  " 

Song  of  Wood  Nymphs    ... 

Stormy  Petrel,  The 

PUNCH. 

Bomba,  King  of  Naples,  Death-Bed  of   . 

Spring 

Too  full  of  Beer 


57i 
62s 
710 
338 
31 
134 
595 
601 

59° 
719 
566 
56i 
269 


86 
708 
560 


179 


231 


85 


348 
63 


472 

339 

68 

49 
195 
514 
172 

354 
151 
128 


QUARLES.  FRANCIS. 
England,  1592-1644. 

"  I  love,  and  have  some  cause  : 
The  Vanity  of  the  World  . 


RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER. 
England,  1^52-  1618. 

Lie,  The  .         .         .         .  . 

Lines  written  the  Night  before  his  Execution 

Nymph's  Reply,  The 

Pilgrimage,  The 

RANDOLPH,  ANSON  D.  F. 

New  York  City. 

Hopefully  waiting 


RANDOLPH,  THOMAS. 

England.  1605-1634. 

Fairies'  Song  (Translation)    . 

RAYMOND,  ROSSITER  W. 

Cincinnati,  O.,  b.  1840. 

Grecian  Temples  at  Pa?stum.  The 
Ichthyosaurus,  Song  of  the  (Translation) 

Love  Song 

Song  of  the  Sea  ' 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN. 
Chester.  Pa.,  b.  1822. 

Angler,  The 

Brave  at  Home,  The 

Closing  Scene,  The        .... 

Prifting 

Reaper's  Dream,  The    .... 
Sheridan's  Ride 


469 
268 
179 
668 
354 


717 

758 
764 


25S 
612 


614 
613 

73 

259 


275 


655 


532 

73' 

61 

653 


521 
429 

548 
631 
290 
449 


ca- 


a- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


xvn 


■a 


ROBERTS,   SARAH. 
America. 
Voice  of  the  Grass,  The 

ROGERS,  SAMUEL. 
Engl  ind,  1703-  1855. 
Descent,  The 
Ginevra 

Great  St.  Bernard,  The 
Italy   .... 
Jorasse   . 
Marriage     . 
Music     . 
Naples 
Nun,  The 
Rome 

Sleeping  Beauty,  A 
Tear,  A       . 
Venice   .         . 
Wish,  A     . 


RONSARD,  PIERRE. 
France,  1-42 -1585. 

Return  of  Spring  (Translation) 

ROSCOE,  WILLIAM. 
England,  1753-11331. 

Burns  ...... 

The  Mother  Nightingale 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA. 

England. 

Milking-Maid,  The    .... 
Up  Hill 

ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL. 
Engl  md. 

The  Blessed  Damozel 


The  Nevermore 

RYAN,  RICHARD. 

Scotland,  iSta  century. 

"  O,  saw  ye  the  lass  ?  "       . 

SAXE,  JOHN  GODFREY. 
Hig  gate.  Vt.,  1>.  1816. 

American  Aristocracy     .... 
Cockney,  The     ...... 

Death  and  Cupid 

Early  Rising 

Eclio 

Kiss  me  softly     ...... 

Railroad  Rhyme 

Woman's  Will 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER. 
Scotland, 

"  Breathes  there  the  man  "  . 

Christmas  in  Olden  Time 

Clan- Alpine,  Fiery  Cross  of . 

Clan-Alpine,  Song  of 

Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the  Black  . 

Helvellyn    .  

Immolation  of  Constance  de  Beverley,  The 
James  Fitz- James  and  Ellen     . 
James  Fitz-James  and  Roderick  Dhu  . 
Lay  of  the  Imprisoned  Huntsman    . 
Lochinvar       ...... 

Macgregnr's  Gathering      .... 

"  March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale" 
Marmion  and  Douglas        .... 

Mannion  at  Flodden  Field    . 

Melrose  Abbey 

N01  ham  <  lastle      ..... 

Palmer.   The 

Rose,   The       ...... 

ind 

"  Soldier,  rest  !  thy  warfare  o'er" 

Stag  Hum,  The 

"I  he  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed  " 
"The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low  " 
u  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  "   . 
loo,  The  Charge  at  . 

"  Where  shall  the  lover  rest?" 
SEDLEY,  SIR  CHARLES. 

Child  and  Maiden  .... 

Phillis  is  my  only  Joy         .... 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM. 

Ln^l  iu  I,   1 

Abuse  of  Authority  {Measure  for  Measure) 


369 


335 
204 

332 
53i 
S03 
125 
S85 
536 
677 

532 
47 

607 

53i 
134 


306 


705 
349 


44 

261 


644 
613 


5° 


728 

727 
67 
742 
736 
78 
744 
729 


430 
527 
394 
394 
393 
211 
684 
9i 
5" 
S'7 
115 
44' 
396 
387 
388 
526 
525 
237 
365 
441 

374 
5'5 
144 
'54 
5»3 
402 
172 


•*-■ 
4s 


595 


Airy  Nothings  {Tempest)       ....  674 

Anne  Hathaway 701 

Antony's  Oration  {Julius  C&sar)  .  .  693 
"Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind"   {As  You 

Like  It) 224 

Cleopatra  {Antony  and  Cleopatra)   .         .         .  558 

"  Come  unto  these  yellow  sands  "  (  Tempest)  656 
Course  of  true  Love,  The  {Midsummer  Night's 

Dream) 158 

Dover  Clirt  {King  Lear) 326 

Dream  of  Clarence  {Richard  III.)       .        .  57S 

Fairie's  Lullaby  {Midsummer  Night's  Dream)  655 

Fancy  {Merchant  0/  Venice)         .         .        .  629 

"Farewell!  thou  art  too  dear "          .         .         .  150 

"  Fear  no  more  the  heat"  (Cymbeline)          .  hjo 

Fool  moralizing  on  Time  (.-is  You  Like  It)     .  618 

Fortune-Teller  {Comedy  of  Errors)     .         .  561 

Friendship  (Hamlet) 32 

"  Full  fathom  five "  ( Tempest)      .                 .  656 

Garden  Scene,  The  {Romeo  and  Juliet)  100 

Grief  {Hamlet) 216 

Hamlet  reproaching  the  Queen  {Hamlet)     .  679 

"Hark,  hark!  the  lark "  {Cymbeline)      .         .  344 
Hotspur's  Description  of  a  Fop  (Henry  IV. 

Parti)        .......  387 

Imagination  {Midsummer  Night' s  Dream)  567 
"  Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow  "  {Winter's 

Tale) 562 

Love  Dissembled  (As  You  Like  It)  .  .  64 
Love,  Unrequited  (Twelfth  Night)  .  .  160 
Love's  Memory  (All's  Well  that  Ends  Well)  154 
"  Maiden  meditation,  fancy  free  "  (Midsum- 
mer N  ght's  Dream)  ....  655 
Martial  Friendship  (Coriolanus)  ...  33 
Mercy  (Merchant  of  Venice)  ....  574 
Mob,  The  Fickle  (Coriolanus)     .         .         .  601 

Murder,  The  (Macbeth) 691 

Music  (Merchant  of  Venice)        .         .         .  585 

Music  (Twelfth  Night) 585 

Olivia  (Twelfth  Night)         ....  39 

"  O  mistress  mine  !  "  (Twelfth  Night)    .        .  51 

Opportunity  (Julius  Ceesar)          .         .         .  593 

Othello's  Defence 99 

Othello's  Despair 696 

"  Over  hill,  over  dale  "  (Midsummer  Night' s 

Dream)  . 656 

Parley,  The  (Macbeth) 6)0 

Patience  and  Sorrow  (King  Lear)       .         .  233 

Perfection  (King  John) 575 

Portia  and  Brutus  (Julius  Ceesar)          .        .  130 

Portia's  Picture  (Merchant  of  Venice)  ■  •  40 
Quarrel     of    Brutus    and     Cassius    (Julius 

Ca>s  tr) 35 

Queen  Mab  (Romeo  and  Juliet)   .        •        •  656 

Remorse,  The  (Macbeth) 692 

Reputation  (Othello) 575 

Rhymers  {Henry  IV.     Parti)        •         •         ■  604 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  The  Parting  of        .         .  147 

Seven  Ages  of  Man  (As  You  Like  It)       •        •  615 

Shepherd's  Life,  A  (Henry  VI.)  .  .  •  135 
Sleep  (Henry  IV.     Parti)       .         .         .         -57° 

Sleep  (Henrv  IV.     Parti).         ■        •         •  57" 

Sleep  (Cymbeline)      ......  576 

Sleep  (Macbeth) 577 

Sleep  (Tempest) 577 

Soliloquy  on  Death  (Hamlet)        .         .         .  216 

Swagger  {Merchant  of  Venice)         ■        •        •  561 
"  Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away  "  (Measure 

for  Measure)  ......  168 

"The  forward  violet  "         .....  41 

"  Under  the  qreenwood  tree  "  (As  You  Like  It)  325 
"When    icicles   hang   by   the   wall"  (Lome's 

Labor's  Lost) 3'9 

"  When  1  do  count  the  clock  "  .         .         .         •  617 

"  When  in  the  chronicle  "      ....  42 

"  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought  "  ',4 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks  "  (Tempest)  .                 ■  656 

"  Whv  should  this  desert  "  (As  You  Like  It)  38 

Wolsey's  Fall  (Henry  VIII.)       ...  217 

Wolsey's  Speech  to  Cromwell  (Henry  VIII.)  218 

Wounded  Stag  (As  Yon  Like  It)     ■       .       •  597 

SHANLY,  CHARLES  DAWSON. 
Ireland. 

Kitty  of  Coleraine 79 


<&- 


4? 


& 


-Will 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


SHARPE,  R.  S. 
England,  1759-1835. 

Minute-Gun,  The  .         .        • 

SHEALE,  RICHARD. 

Chevy-Chase      .... 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE. 

England,  1792  -1822. 

Autumn ...         ... 

Beatrice  Cenci  . 

Cloud,  The 

Dream  of  the  Unknown,  A 

Ianthe,  Sleeping    .... 

"  I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee  " 

"  I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden  " 

Invitation,  The  . 

Lament,  A      .        . 

Love's  Philosophy     . 

Music     ... 

Night 

Night,  To      .        .        , 

Ozymandias  of  Egypt 

Recollection,  The  . 

Skylark,  To  the 

Sunset 

"  The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear 
View  from  the  Euganean  Hills     . 

War 

West-Wind,  To  the 

"  When  the  lamp  is  shattered" 

SHIRLEY,  JAMES. 
England,  1594- 1666. 

Death's  Final  Conquest 

SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP. 

England,  1554 -15%. 

Love's  Silence    .... 
My  True-Love  hath  my  Heart 
Sleep 

SIGOURNEY,  LYDIA  HUNTLEY. 

America.  1791-1865. 

Coral  Insect,  The  .... 

Lost  Sister,  The 

Man  —  Woman      .... 


SIMMONS,  BARTHOLOMEW. 

Ireland,  1843. 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Hood 

SIMMS,  WILLIAM  GILMORE. 

Charleston,  S.  C,  b.  1806. 
Grape-Vine  Swing,  The 
Mother  and  Child      . 
Shaded  Water,  The      . 

SKELTON,  JOHN. 
England,  1485-1529. 

To  Mrs.  Margaret  Hussey 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE. 
England,  1740-  i3o6. 

The  Swallow       .... 


481 


493 


3i6 
695 
633 
630 

577 
log 

25 
3°9 
225 

57 
585 
302 
302 
542 
333 
343 
300 
228 

335 
380 

334 
167 


187 


64 

57 
575 


475 
194 

5«9 


7°3 


360 
590 
33° 


38 


34° 


SMITH,  HORACE. 

England,  1779-  1849. 

Address  to  the  Alabaster  Sarcophagus         .        544 
Address  to  the  Mummy  at  Belzoni's  Exhibition  542 

Flowers,  Hymn  to  the 363 

Moral  Cosmetics 415 

Tale  of  Drury  Lane,  A  770 

SMITH.  JAMES. 
England,  1776- 1839. 

The  Theatre 


SMITH,  SYDNEY. 
England,  1771  - 1845. 

A  Receipt  for  Salad  . 

SOUTHEY,  CAROLINE. 
See  Caroline  Bowles. 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT. 
England,  1774-1843. 

Blenheim,  The  Battle  of 
Cataract  of  Lodore,  The   . 
(  nrse  of  Kehama,  The 
Ebb-Tide  .... 
God's  Judgment  on  Hatto 


771 


562 


375 
773 
679 
612 

688 


Greenwood  Shrift,  The 288 

Holly- Tree,  The  .....  360 

Inchcape  Rock,  The 482 

Inscription  for  Henry  Marten's  Cell  .  702 

March  to  Moscow,  The 402 

Roderick  in  Battle  .....  402 

Roprecht  the  Robber 761 

Well  of  St.  Keyne,  The        ....  132 

SPENCER,  CAROLINE  S. 

Catskill,  N.  Y.,  1850. 

Living  Waters 593 

SPENCER,  WILLIAM  ROBERT 

England,  1770-1834. 

Beth  Gelert 515 

"  Too  late  I  stayed" 617 

Wife,  Children,  and  Friends         .        .        .  125 

SPENSER,  EDMUND. 
England,  1553-1S99. 

Bower  of  Bliss,  The 635 

Bride,  The 121 

Cave  of  Sleep,  The 636 

Ministry  of  Angels,  The        ....  279 

Sir  Calepine  rescues  Serena      ....  636 

Una  and  the  Lion 637 

SPRAGUE,  CHARLES. 

Boston,  Mass.,  b.  1791. 

The  Winged  Worshippers         ....    347 

STARK. 

America. 

Modern  Belle,  The 728 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE. 

New  York  City,  b.  1837. 

Cavalry  Song 386 

Doorstep,  The 619 

Old  Admiral,  The 716 

What  the  Winds  bring 334 

Betrothed  Anew 371 

STERLING,  JOHN. 

Scotland,  1806- 1844. 

Husbandman,  The 42° 

On  a  Beautiful  Day 299 

Spice-Tree,  The 657 

STERNE,  LAURENCE. 

England,  1713-  1768. 

A  Simile  for  Reviewers 734 

STEVENS,  GEORGE  ALEXANDER. 

England,  d    1784. 

The  Storm 482 

STILL,  JOHN. 

England,  1543-1607. 

Good  Ale .732 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY. 

Hingham,  Mass.,  b.  1825. 

Burial  of  Lincoln 7'5 

"  It  never  comes  again  " 27 

STODDART,  THOMAS  TOD. 

Scotland,  about  1839. 

The  Anglers'  Trysting-Tree  ...        520 

STORY,  ROBERT. 

Scotland,  1790-  1859. 

Whistle,  The •      81 

STORY,  WILLIAM  WETMORE. 

Salem,  Mass..  h.  1819. 

Violet,  The 3°7 

STOWE,  HARRIET  BEECHER. 

Litchfield,  Conn.,  b.  1812. 

A  Day  in  the  Pamfili  Doria      ....    534 

"Only  a  Year"      ......         18s 

Lines  to  the  Memory  of  Annie         .        .        .176 

STRANGFORD,  LORD. 

England.  1781-1855. 

Blighted  Love 228 

SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN. 

England,  i6o->-i64l. 

Bride,  The 124 

"  I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart  "    .        .  47 

"  Why  so  pale  and  wan  ? "  ....    169 


m~ 


a- 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


xix 


ft 


SURREY,  LORD. 

England,  1:16-1547. 

Give  Place,  ye  Lovers  .... 
Means  to  attain  Happy  Life,  The     . 

SWAIN,  CHARLES. 
England,  b.  i-o;. 

A  Violet  in  her  Hair      .... 
"  I  stand  on  Zion's  mount  "      .         .         . 
Smile  and  never  heed  me 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES. 

England,  b.  1843. 

Disappointed  Lover,  The . 

Kissing  her  Hair 

Love 

"  When  the  hounds  of  spring  "    . 

SYLVESTER,  JOSHUA. 

England,  1563- 1618. 

C01  tentment 

"  Were  1  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain  " 

TANNAHILL,  ROBERT. 

Scotland,  1774- tSio. 

Flower  o'  Dumblane,  The 

"The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn"  . 

TAPPAN,  W.  B. 

Beverly.  Mass.,  1794. 

"  There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest"    . 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD. 

Kcnnett  Square,  Pa.,  b.  1825. 
Arab  to  the  Palm,  The      . 
Bedouin  Love-Song       .... 

Lute- Player,  The 

Possession 

Rose,  The 


TAYLOR,  JANE. 

England,  1783-1824. 

Philosopher's  Scales,  The 
Toad's  Journal,  The  . 

TAYLOR,  JEFFERYS. 

England,  1703-  1S53. 
Milkmaid,  The 


TAYLOR,  JEREMY. 
England,  1613-1667. 
Heaven 

TENNENT,   WILLIAM  H. 
Ode  to  Peace 


TENNYSON,  ALFRED. 

Eng!  md.  1>.  iRoj. 

Bugle,  The 

"  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud"  . 
Dead  Friend,  The      .... 

Death  of  Arthur 

Death  of  the  Old  Year,  The     . 
Fortune.  —  Enid's  Song 
Enoch  Arden  at  the  Window    . 
Godiva   ....... 

Hero  to  Leander        .... 

"  Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  " 
In  Memoriam,  Selections  from  . 

Locksley  Hall 

Lullaby 

M  iy  Queen,  The 

Miller's  Daughter,  The     . 

New  Year's  Eve    ..... 

Retrospection 

Sleeping  Beauty,  The    .... 
Song  of  the  Brook     .... 
Spring 


TENNYSON,  CHARLES. 

Lngl  md. 

Ocean,  The 


TERRY,  ROSE. 
America. 

Reve  du  Midi 


THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE. 

Engl  an  I.   j  -it  -  1S63. 

Age  of  Wisdom,  The  .... 

Church  Gate,  At  the  .... 

End  of  the  1'iay,  The  .... 

Little  Billee  .  .... 

Mahogany  Tree,  The  .... 


4i 

135 


46 

283 
no 


205 
107 
155 
3°5 


567 
"5 


5° 
299 


269 


359 

7' 

108 

127 

3°4 


673 
67. 


671 

266 
373 


33t 

69 

37 
407 
610 

59 1 
166 

558 
146 
199 
182 
161 
7 
239 
5° 
617 
223 
116 

327 

304 


326 


298 


56 

45 
253 
766 
608 


Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the  Ball 
Sorrows  of  Werther  . 
White  Squall,  The 


THAXTER,  MRS.  CELIA. 

Isles  of  Shoals. 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore. 

THOM,  WILLIAM. 

Scorland. 

The  Mitherless  Bairn 


THOMSON,  JAMES. 
England,  1700-1748. 
Angling. 
Connubial  Life  . 
Domestic  Birds 
Hymn  on  the  Seasons 
Plea  for  the  Animals 
Rule  Britannia  . 
Songsters,  The 
Stag  Hunt,  The 
Summer  Morning  . 
Winter  Scenes   . 


THORNBURY,  GEORGE  WALTER. 

England,  b.  1828. 

Jester's  Sermon,  The    . 

THURLOW,  LORD. 

England,  178I  - 1829. 

Beauty        ...... 

Bird,  To  a 

TICKELL,  THOMAS. 

England,  b.  16S6. 

To  a  Lady  before  Marriage 

TILTON,  THEODORE. 

New  York  City,  b.  1S35. 

{  Baby  Bye 

v  Great  Bell  Roland,  The    . 

TOPLADY,  AUGUSTUS  MONTAGUE. 

England,  1740- 1788. 

"  Rock  of  ages,  cleft  for  me  " 

TRENCH,  RICHARD  CHENEVIX. 

England,  b.  1807. 

Harmosan 


730 
764 
479 


477 


19 


520 
125 
34' 
321 
599 
442 
34i 
5'4 
3" 
3'9 


619 


566 
353 


123 


4 


TROWBRIDGE,  JOHN  TOWNSEND. 
Ogden,  N.  Y.,  b.  1827. 

Vagabonds,  The 


TUCKERMAN,  HENRY  THEODORE. 

Boston,  Mass.,  b.  1813. 

Newport  Beach  * 

TUPPER,  MARTIN  FARQUHAR. 

England,  b.  1S10. 

Cruelty  to  Animals,  Of 

TWISS,  HORACE 

England,  1780-1849. 

Friends  far  away 

TYCHBORN,  CHIDIOCK. 

England. 

Lines  written  by  one   in   the  Tower,  being 
Young  and  Condemned  to  die 

UHLAND,  LUDWIG. 
Germany,  1787-  1 

Landlady's  Daughter,  The    .... 

UPTON,  JAMES. 
England,  1670-  1749. 

Lass  of  Richmond  Hill,  The    . 

VAUGHAN,  HENRY. 
1021  - 

"  They  are  all  gone  " 

VERY,  JONES. 
Salem,  Mass  .  b.  1P13 

Latter  Rain,  The 

Nature 

Spirit  Land,  The 

VICENTE,   f.lL. 

Portugal,  1 1-:.' •  t=,{r. 

The  Nightingale  (Translation)     . 

VILLEGAS,  ESTEVAN  MANUEL  DE. 
Spain. 

The  Mother  Nightingale  (Translation)     . 


540 


274 


581 


417 


622 


59S 


34 


6.3 


5i 


183 


16 

3=5 
266 


343 


349 


te-- 


# 


[& 


XX 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


VISSCHER,   MARIA  TESSELSCHADE. 
Holland,  1554-1049- 

The  Nightingale  (Translation) 

WALLER,  EDMUND. 
England,  1605-1687. 
Girdle,  On  a 
Go,  lovely  Rose  ! 


WALLER,  JOHN  FRANCIS. 
Ireland,  h.  1810. 

Spinning-Wheel  Song,  The 

WALSH,  WILLIAM. 
England,  1603- 1707. 
Rivalry  in  Love     . 


WALTON,  IZAAK.    (See  John  Chalkhill.) 
England,  1593  - 1683. 

Angler's  Wish,  The 

WARTON,  THOMAS. 
Engl  md,  1728- 1790. 

Retirement 


WASTELL,  SIMON. 
England,  d.  1623. 
Man's  Mortality 

WATSON,  JAMES  W. 
America. 

Beautiful  Snow 


WATTS,  ISAAC. 

England,  1674-1749- 

"  Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne  "    . 
"  From  all  that  dwell 

Insignificant  Existence      .... 
"  O  God  i  our  help  in  ages  past " 

Summer  Evening,  A 

"The  heavens  declare  thy  glory,  Lord  !  " 
"  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight  "    . 
"Unveil  thy  bosom,  faithful  tomb" 

WAUGH,  EDWIN. 

England. 

The  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine     . 

WEIR,   HARRISON. 
England. 

English  Robin,  The      .... 

WELBY,  AMELIA  B. 
America,  b.  1821. 


348 


5° 

45 


98 

59 
520 

325 
186 
2SI 


284 
294 
593 
271 

314 
282 
266 
'75 


79 


344 


The  Old  Maid 620 


WESLEY,  CHARLES. 

England,  1708- 1788. 

"  And  let  this  feeble  body  fail "    . 
"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul  " 
"  Now  to  the  haven  of  thy  breast  " 
"  On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  "  . 
Wrestling  Jacob    .... 

WESTWOOD,  THOMAS. 

England. 

Little  Bell  .     _  . 

"  Under  my  window  "  . 

WHITCHER,  FRANCES  MIRIAM. 
\\  hitesboro',  NT-  Y.,  b.  1802. 

Widow  Bedott  to  Elder  Sniffles 

WHITE,  BLANCO. 

England,  1773- 1840. 

Night 


WHITE,  HENRY  KIRKE. 

England.  £785-  i8c6. 

Early  Primrose,  To  the 
Harvest  Moon,  To  the  . 


WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 
Haverhill,  Mass..  b.  1807. 
Absent  Sailor,  To  her 
Angel  of  Patience,  The 
Barbara  Frietchie 
Barclay  of  Ury 
Barefoot  Boy,  The     . 
Benedicite  (Snow  Bound) 
Burns  .... 

Farewell,  The 
Hampton  Beach 
Ichabod  .         . 

Indian  Summer . 
Laus  Deo  !     .         .         . 


285 
272 
272 
265 
270 


63' 
12 


768 


302 


366 
421 


153 
179 
448 

377 
26 

31 
7°3 
142 

473 
713 
3i6 
463 


Maud  Muller 75 

Meeting,  The 287 

New  England  in  Winter 323 

Palm-Tree,  The 360 

Poet's  Reward,  The 567 

Pumpkin,  The        ......  363 

Reformer,  The 465 

WILDE,  RICHARD  HENRY. 

Ireland,  1789-1847. 

Life         ........  610 

WILLIS,  NATHANIEL  PARKER. 

Portland,  Me.,  1807-  1867. 

Belfry  Pigeon,  The 341 

Leper,  The 536 

Parrhasius 689 

Women,  Two 223 

WILSON,  JOHN  (Kit  North). 

Scotland,  1785-1854. 

Evening  Cloud,  The 593 

To  a  Sleeping  Child      .....  592 

WINSLOW,  HARRIET. 

America,  b.  1824. 

"Why  thus  longing?" 583 

WITHER,  GEORGE. 
England,  1588 -1667. 

"  I  loved  a  lass,  a  fair  one  "  .        .        .        .  168 

"  Lord  !  when  those  glorious  lights  I  see  "       .  280 

Shepherd's  Resolution}  The  ....  64 

WOLCOTT,  DR.  (Peter  Pindar). 
England,  17^3-1819. 

King  Canute  and  his  Nobles     ....  738 

Pilgrims  and  the  Peas,  The  ....  739 

Razor-Seller,  The 740 

WOLFE,  CHARLES. 
Ireland,  1719-  1823. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore     ....  717 

WOODWORTH,  SAMUEL. 
Scituate,  Mass.,  1785- 1842. 

Old  Oaken  Bucket,  The         ....  27 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM. 

England,  1770-1850. 

Cuckoo,  To  the •  342 

Daffodils 369 

Daisy,  To  the 3°7 

Education  of  Nature,  The    .        .        .        .  21 

England 442 

Helvellyn 21 1 

Highland  GirJ  of  Inversnaid,  To  the        .         .  23 

Inner  Vision,  The          .         .         .         .         •  567 

Intimations  of  Immortality       ....  622 

Lost  Love,  The 194 

March 3°7 

Music 585 

Old  Matthew 33 

Pet  Lamb,  The 13 

Rainbow,  The    .         .         •        •         •        •         •  323 

Reaper.  The 57° 

"  She  was  a  phantom  of  delight "...  43 

Simon  Lee,  the  old  Huntsman      .        .        .  245 

Skylark,  To  the 344 

Sleeplessness 577 

Two  April  Mornings,  The         .        •        •        •  193 

We  are  Seven 14 

Westminster  Bridge 528 

Worldliness 297 

Yarrow  Unvisited 33° 

Yarrow  Visited 33° 

WOTTON,  SIR  HENRY. 

England.  1568-^39. 

A  Happy  Life 571 

"You  meaner  beauties"        ....  41 
Verses  in  Praise  of  Angling      .         •        •        -521 

WYATT,  SIR  THOMAS. 

England,  1503- 1542.  _ 

An  Earnest  Suit     ••••••  "5° 

The  Deceived  Lover  sueth  only  for  Liberty     .  56 

XAVIER,  ST.  FRANCIS. 

France,  1506-1552. 

"  My  God,  I  love  thee "  (Translation)  .        .  257 

YOUL,  EDWARD. 
England. 

Song  of  Spring 3°7 


tfl- 


-ff 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


ft 


xxi 


YOUNG,  DR.  EDWARD. 

Hngi.uid,  1604-  I/05. 
Man 

Narcissa    . 
Procrastination 
lime  .... 


ANONYMOUS. 

Advice  ..... 

Annie  Laurie 

Baby  Louise  (M.  E.)     . 

Bachelor's  Hall 

Burd  Helen    .... 

Caliph  and  Satan,  The 

Cano  Carmen  Sixpence 

Child  of  Kile,  The    . 

Children  in  the  Wood,  The  . 

Civil  War  .... 

Deborah  Lee 

Dreamer,  The    . 

Drummer-Boy's  Burial,  The 

Eggs  and  the  Horses,  i'he 

"  fairer  than  thee  " 

Fair  Helen  of  Ivirkconnell 

Fetching  Water  from  the  Well 

Forge,  I'he  Song  ot"  the    . 

Gluggity  Glug 

"Go,  feel  what  I  have  felt" 

Good  oid  Plough,  The  . 

Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child    . 

Grief  for  the  Dead 

Heaven      .... 

Homesick  for  the  Country     . 

Hundred  Years  to  come,  A 

"  If  women  could  be  fair" 

Indian  Chieftain,  i'he 

Indian  Summer 

Jovial  Beggar,  The    . 

"Just  as  1  am  "    . 

"  Jwohnny,  git  oot !  " 

King  and  the  Miller  of  Mansfield 

Kissing  's  no  Sin        .         .         . 

Lady  Ann  Bothwell's  Lament 

Lament  of  the  Border  Widow  . 

Little  Puss     .... 

"  Love  me  little,  love  me  long  " 

Loveliness  of  Love,  The 

"  Love  not  me  for  comely  grace" 


'I'he 


S89 

21 

615 

6«S 


4'5 

54 
6 
729 
112 
073 
763 
5°9 

10 
38i 
768 
224 
37S 
759 

46 
197 

93 
423 
733 
4'7 
421 

195 
176 
266 
136 
621 
60S 
761 
317 
732 
274 
106 

497 

79 

'73 

207 

6 

61 

60 

61 


proud 


Meditation  on  the  Frailty  of  this  Life,  A 
Mummy  at   Belzoni's   Exhibition,    Answer 

the   ..., 
"  My  eyes  !  how  I  love  you  ' 
"  My  Love  in  her  attire  " 
My  old  Kentucky  Home   . 
My  sweet  Sweeting 
New  Year's  Eve 
"  Nothing  but  leaves  "  . 
"  O  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 
Old-School  Punishment 
"  Only  waiting  " 
Origin  of  the  Opal 
Orphans,  The    . 
Perils  of  the  Pave,  The 
Prayer  for  Life,  A 
Remonstrance  with  the  Snails 
Robin  Hood  and  Allen-a-Dale 
Sally  of  the  Cid 

Sea  Fight,  The 

Sebastopol  taken  —  in  and  done  for  {London 

Diogenes)    . 
Shan  Van  Vocht    . 
Shule  Aroon 
Signs  of  Rain 
Skater  Belle,  Our      . 
Skeleton,  To  a 
Sneezing     .... 
Somebody      .... 
Stormy  Petrel,  Lines  to  the 
Summer  Days 
Swell's  Soliloquy 
The  Caliph  and  Satan  (J.  F.  C  ) 
The  Eggs  and  the  Horses  (R.  S 
"  The  land,  boys,  we  live  in  " 
The  Petrified  Kern     . 
The  Seaside  Well  . 
"  They  're  dear  fish  to  me  " 
Tomb  of  Cyrus,  The 
Under  the  Cross  (W.  C.  R.)      . 
Useful  Plough,  The 
Vicar  of  Bray,  The    . 
Waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonny 
"  When  shall  we  all  meet  again?' 
White  Rose,  The  . 
"  Why,  lovely  charmer  "    . 
Wife  to  her  Husband,  The    . 
Willy  drowned  in  Yarrow  . 


S.) 


of 


611 

543 
74 
47 

148 

49 
249 
269 

195 
26 
266 
654 
246 
767 
2S8 

357 
496 
410 
487 

766 

455 
200 

313 
5>8 
622 

763 
97 

354 
80 

742 
D73 
759 
444 
620 

59° 
199 
210 
178 
420 
754 
"73 
225 

39 

47 

157 

202 


9 


-ft 


INTRODUCTION. 


So  large  a  collection  of  poems  as  this  demands  of  its  compiler  an  extensive  famil- 
iarity with  the  poetic  literature  of  our  language,  both  of  the  early  and  the  later 
time,  and  withal  so  liberal  a  taste  as  not  to  exclude  any  variety  of  poetic  merit.  At 
the  request  of  the  Publishers  I  undertook  to  write  an  Introduction  to  the  present 
work,  and  in  pursuance  of  this  design  I  find  that  I  have  come  into  a  somewhat  closer 
personal  relation  with  the  book.  In  its  progress  it  has  passed  entirely  under  my  re- 
vision, and,  although  not  absolutely  responsible  for  the  compilation  or  its  arrange- 
ment, I  have,  as  requested,  exercised  a  free  hand  both  in  excluding  and  in  adding 
matter  accoi'ding  to  my  judgment  of  what  was  best  adapted  to  the  purposes  of  the 
enterprise.  Such,  however,  is  the  wide  range  of  English  verse,  and  such  the  abun- 
dance of  the  materials,  that  a  compilation  of  this  kind  must  be  like  a  bouquet  gath- 
ered from  the  fields  in  June,  -when  hundreds  of  flowers  will  be  left  in  unvisited  spots, 
as  beautiful  as  those  which  have  been  taken.  It  may  happen,  therefore,  that  many 
who  have  learned  to  delight  in  some  particular  poem  will  turn  these  pages,  as  they 
might  those  of  other  collections,  without  finding  their  favorite.  Nor  should  it  be 
matter  of  surprise,  considering  the  multitude  of  authors  from  whom  the  compila- 
tion is  made,  if  it  be  found  that  some  are  overlooked,  especially  the  more  recent,  of 
equal  merit  with  many  whose  poems  appear  in  these  pages.  It  may  happen,  also, 
that  the  compiler,  in  consequence  of  some  particular  association,  has  been  sensible  of 
a  beauty  and  a  power  of  awakening  emotions  and  recalling  images  in  certain  poems 
which  other  readers  will  fail  to  perceive.  It  should  be  considered,  moreover,  that  in 
poetry,  as  in  painting,  different  artists  have  different  modes  of  presenting  their  con- 
ceptions, each  of  which  may  possess  its  peculiar  merit,  yet  those  whose  taste  is  formed 
by  contemplating  tho  productions  of  one  class  take  little  pleasure  in  any  other. 
Crabb  Robinson  relates  that  Wordsworth  once  admitted  to  him  that  he  did  not 
much  admire  contemporary  poetry,  not  because  of  its  want  of  poetic  merit,  but 
because  he  had  been  accustomed  to  poetry  of  a  different  sort,  and  added  that  but 
for  this  he  might  have  read  it  with  pleasure.  I  quote  from  memory.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  every  reader  of  this  collection,  however  he  may  have  been  trained,  will 
find  in  the  great  variety  of  its  contents  something  conformable  to  his  taste. 

I  suppose  it  is  not  necessary  to  give  a  reason  for  adding  another  to  the  collections 
of  this  nature,  already  in  print.  They  abound  in  every  language,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  there  is  a  demand  for  them.  German  literature,  prolific  as  it  is  in  verse, 
has  many  of  them,  and  some  of  them  compiled  by  distinguished  authors.     The  par- 


a- 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION. 


lor  table  and  the  winter  fireside  require  a  book  which,  when  one  is  in  the  humor  for 
reading  poetry  and  knows  not  what  author  to  take  up,  will  supply  exactly  what  he 
wants. 

I  have  known  persons  who  frankly  said  that  they  took  no  pleasure  in  reading 
poetry,  and  perhaps  the  number  of  those  who  make  this  admission  would  be  greater 
were  it  not  for  the  fear  of  appearing  singular.  But  to  the  great  mass  of  mankind 
poetry  is  really  a  delight  and  a  refreshment.  To  many,  perhaps  to  most,  it  is  not 
requisite  that  it  should  be  of  the  highest  degree  of  merit.  Nor,  although  it  be  true 
that  the  poems  which  are  most  famous  and  most  highly  prized  are  works  of  con- 
siderable length,  can  it  be  said  that  the  pleasure  they  give  is  in  any  degree  propor- 
tionate to  the  extent  of  their  plan.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  only  poems  of  a 
moderate  length,  or  else  portions  of  the  greater  works  to  which  I  refer,  that  pro- 
duce the  effect  upon  the  mind  and  heart  which  make  the  charm  of  this  kind  of 
writing.  The  proper  office  of  poetry,  in  filling  the  mind  with  delightful  images  and 
awakening  the  gentler  emotions,  is  not  accomplished  on  a  first  and  rapid  perusal, 
but  requires  that  the  words  should  be  dwelt  upon  until  they  become  in  a  certain 
sense  our  own,  and  are  adopted  as  the  utterance  of  our  own  minds.  A  collection 
such  as  this  is  intended  to  be  furnishes  for  this  purpose  portions  of  the  best  Eng- 
lish verse  suited  to  any  of  the  varying  moods  of  its  readers. 

Such  a  work  also,  if  sufficiently  extensive,  gives  the  reader  an  opportunity  of  com- 
paring the  poetic  literature  of  one  period  with  that  of  another  ;  of  noting  the  fluctu- 
ations of  taste,  and  how  the  poetic  forms  which  are  in  fashion  during  one  age  are 
laid  aside  in  the  next ;  of  observing  the  changes  which  take  place  in  our  language, 
and  the  sentiments  which  at  different  periods  challenge  the  public  approbation. 
Specimens  of  the  poetry  of  different  centuries  presented  in  this  way  show  how  the 
great  stream  of  human  thought  in  its  poetic  form  eddies  now  to  the  right  and  now 
to  the  left,  wearing  away  its  banks  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other.  Some  au- 
thor of  more  than  common  faculties  and  more  than  common  boldness  catches  the 
public  attention,  and  immediately  he  has  a  crowd  of  followers  who  form  their  taste 
on  his  and  seek  to  divide  with  him  the  praise.  Thus  Cowley,  with  his  undeniable 
genius,  was  the  head  of  a  numerous  class  who  made  poetry  consist  in  far-fetched  con- 
ceits, ideas  oddly  brought  together,  and  quaint  turns  of  thought.  Tope,  following  close 
upon  Dryden,  and  learning  much  from  him,  was  the  founder  of  a  school  of  longer 
duration,  which  found  its  models  in  Boileau  and  other  poets  of  the  reign  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth,  — a  school  in  which  the  wit  predominated  over  the  poetry,  —  a  school 
marked  by  striking  oppositions  of  thought,  frequent  happinesses  of  expression,  and  a 
carefully  balanced  modulation,  —  numbers  pleasing  at  first,  but  in  the  end  fatiguing. 
As  this  school  degenerated  the  wit  almost  disappeared,  but  there  was  no  new  infu- 
sion of  poetry  in  its  place.  When  Scott  gave  the  public  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel, and  other  poems,  which  certainly,  considered  as  mere  narratives,  are  the  best  we 
have,  carrying  the  reader  forward  without  weariness  and  with  an  interest  which  the 
author  never  allows  to  subside,  a  crowd  of  imitators  pressed  after  him,  the  greater 
part  of  whom  are  no  longer  read.  Wordsworth  had,  and  still  has,  his  school ;  the 
stamp  of  his  example  is  visible  on  the  writings  of  all  the  poets  of  the  present  day. 


tt 


-ff 


INTRODUCTION.  xxV 


■-a 


Even  Byron  showed  himself,  in  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  to  he  one  of 
his  disciples,  though  he  fiercely  resented  being  called  so.  The  same  poet  did  not 
disdain  to  learn  of  Scott  in  composing  his  narrative  poems,  such  as  the  Bride  of  Aby- 
dos  and  the  Giaour,  though  he  could  never  tell  a  story  in  verse  without  occasional 
tediousness.  In  our  day  the  style  of  writing  adopted  by  eminent  living  poets  is  often 
seen  reflected  in  the  verses  of  their  younger  contemporaries,  — sometimes  with  an 
effect  like  that  of  a  face  beheld  in  a  tarnished  mirror.  Thus  it  is  that  poets  are 
formed  by  their  influence  on  one  another ;  the  greatest  of  them  are  more  or  less  in- 
debted for  what  they  are  to  their  predecessors  and  their  contemporaries. 

While  speaking  of  these  changes  in  the  public  taste,  I  am  tempted  to  caution  the 
reader  against  the  mistake  often  made  of  estimating  the  merit  of  one  poet  by  the  too 
easy  process  of  comparing  him  with  another.  The  varieties  of  poetic  excellence  are 
as  great  as  the  varieties  of  beauty  in  flowers  or  in  the  female  face.  There  is  no  poet, 
indeed  no  author  in  any  department  of  literature,  who  can  be  taken  as  a  standai-d  in 
j  udging  of  others ;  the  true  standard  is  an  ideal  one,  and  even  this  is  not  the  same 
in  all  men's  minds.  One  delights  in  grace,  another  in  strength  ;  one  in  a  fiery  vehe- 
mence and  enthusiasm  on  the  surface,  another  in  majestic  repose  and  the  expression 
of  feeling  too  deep  to  be  noisy ;  one  loves  simple  and  obvious  images  strikingly  em- 
ployed, or  familiar  thoughts  placed  in  a  new  light,  another  is  satisfied  only  with  nov- 
elties of  thought  and  expression,  with  uncommon  illustrations  and  images  far  sought. 
It  is  certain  that  each  of  these  modes  of  treating  a  subject  may  have  its  peculiar 
merit,  and  that  it  is  absurd  to  require  of  those  whose  genius  inclines  them  to  one 
that  they  should  adopt  its  opposite,  or  to  set  one  down  as  inferior  to  another  be- 
cause he  is  not  of  the  same  class.  As  well,  in  looking  through  an  astronomer's 
telescope  at  that  beautiful  phenomenon,  a  double  star,  in  which  the  twin  flames  are 
one  of  a  roseate  and  the  other  of  a  golden  tint,  might  we  quarrel  with  either  of 
them  because  it  is  not  colored  like  its  fellow.  Some  of  the  comparisons  made  by 
critics  between  one  poet  and  another  are  scarcely  less  preposterous  than  would  be 
a  comparison  between  a  river  and  a  mountain. 

The  compiler  of  this  collection  has  gone  as  far  back  as  to  the  author  who  may 
properly  be  called  the  father  of  English  poetry,  and  who  wrote  while  our  language 
was  like  the  lion  in  Milton's  account  of  the  creation,  when  rising  from  the  earth  at 

the  Divine  command  and 

"  .  .  .   .  pawing  to  get  free 
His  hinder  parts,"  — 

for  it  was  still  clogged  by  the  unassimilated  portions  of  the  French  tongue,  to  which 
in  part  it  owed  its  origin.  These  wore  to  be  thrown  aside  in  after  years.  The  versi- 
fication had  also  one  characteristic  of  French  verse  which  was  soon  after  Chaucer's 
time  laid  aside,  — the  mute  or  final  c  had  in  his  lines  the  value  of  a  syllable  by  it- 
self, especially  when  the  next  word  began  with  a  consonant.  But  though  these  pe- 
culiarities somewhat  embarrass  the  reader,  lie  still  finds  in  the  writings  of  the  old 
poet  a  fund  of  the  good  old  English  of  the  Saxon  fireside,  which  makes  them  worthy 
to  be  studied  were  it  only  to  strengthen  OUT  hold  on  our  language.  He  delighted  in 
describing  natural  objects  which  still  retained  their  Saxon  names,  and  this  he  did  with 


a- 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION. 


•y 


great  beauty  and  sweetness.  In  the  sentiments  also  the  critics  ascribe  to  him  a  de- 
gree of  delicacy  which  one  could  scarcely  have  looked  for  in  the  age  in  which  he  wrote, 
though  at  other  times  he  avails  himself  of  the  license  then  allowed.  There  is  no 
majesty,  no  stately  march  of  numbers,  in  his  poetry,  still  less  is  there  of  fire,  rapidity, 
or  conciseness  ;  the  French  and  Italian  narrative  poets  from  whom  he  learned  his 
art  wrote  as  if  the  people  of  their  time  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  attend  to  long  sto- 
ries, and  Chaucer,  who  translated  from  the  French  the  Romaunt  of  the  Hose,  though 
a  greater  poet  than  any  of  those  whom  he  took  for  his  models,  made  small  improve- 
ment upon  them  in  this  respect.  His  Troylus  and  Cryseyde,  with  but  little  action 
and  incident,  is  as  long  as  either  of  the  epics  of  Homer.  The  Canterbury  Tales, 
Chaucer's  best  things,  have  less  of  this  defect ;  but  even  there  the  narrative  is  over- 
minute,  and  the  personages,  as  Taine,  the  French  critic,  remarks,  although  they  talk 
well,  talk  too  much.  The  taste  for  this  prolixity  in  narratives  and  conversations  had 
a  long  duration  in  English  poetry,  since  we  find  the  same  tediousness,  to  call  it  by 
its  true  name,  in  Shakespeare's  Venus  and  Adonis  and  his  Lucrece,  written  more 
than  two  hundred  years  later.  Yet  in  the  mean  time  the  old  popular  ballads  of  Eng- 
land and  Scotland  had  been  composed,  in  which  the  incidents  follow  each  other  in 
quick  succession,  and  the  briefest  possible  speeches  are  uttered  by  the  personages. 
The  scholars  and  court  poets  doubtless  disdained  to  learn  anything  of  these  poets  of 
the  people,  and  the  Davideis  of  Cowley,  who  lived  three  hundred  years  after  Chaucer, 
is  as  remarkable  for  the  sluggish  progress  of  the  story  and  the  tediousness  of  the 
harangues  as  for  any  other  characteristics. 

Between  the  time  of  Chaucer  and  that  of  Sidney  and  Spenser  we  find  little  in  the 
poetic  literature  of  our  language  to  detain  our  attention.  That  age  produced  many 
obscure  versifiers,  and  metrical  romances  continued  to  be  written  after  the  fashion  of 
the  French  and  Italian  poets,  whom  Chaucer  acknowledged  as  his  masters.  During 
this  period  appeared  Shelton,  the  poet  and  jester,  whose  special  talent  was  facility  in 
rhyming,  who  rhymed  as  if  he  could  not  help  it,  —  as  if  he  had  only  to  put  pen  to 
paper,  and  the  words  leaped  of  their  own  accord  into  regular  measure  with  an  inev- 
itable jingle  at  the  endings.  Meantime  our  language  was  undergoing  a  process 
which  gradually  separated  the  nobler  parts  from  the  dross,  rejecting  the  French  ad- 
ditions for  which  there  was  no  occasion,  or  which  could  not  easily  be  made  to  take 
upon  themselves  the  familiar  forms  of  our  tongue.  The  prosody  of  English  became 
also  fixed  in  that  period  ;  the  final  e  which  so  perplexes  the  modern  reader  in  Chau- 
cer's verse  was  no  longer  permitted  to  figure  as  a  distinct  syllable.  The  poets,  how- 
ever, still  allowed  themselves  the  liberty  of  sometimes  making,  after  the  French  man- 
ner, two  syllables  of  the  terminations  Hon  and  ion,  so  that  nation  became  a  word  of 
three  syllables  and  opinion  a  word  of  four.  The  Sonnets  of  Sidney,  written  on  the 
Italian  model,  have  all  the  grace  and  ingenuity  of  those  of  Petrarch.  In  the  Faerie 
Queene  of  Spenser  it  seems  to  me  that  we  find  the  English  language,  so  far  as  the 
purposes  of  poetry  require,  in  a  degree  of  perfection  beyond  which  it  has  not  been 
since  carried,  and,  I  suppose,  never  will  be.  A  vast  assemblage  of  poetic  endowments 
contributed  to  the  composition  of  the  poem,  yet  I  think  it  would  not  be  easy  to  name 
one  of  the  same  length,  and  the  work  of  a  genius  equally  great,  in  any  language. 


-tr 


-& 


-R- 


INTRODUCTION. 


XX  vu 


which  more  fatigues  the  reader  in  a  steady  perusal  from  beginning  to  end.  In  it  we 
have  an  invention  ever  awake,  active,  and  apparently  inexhaustible ;  an  affluence 
of  imagery  grand,  beautiful,  or  magnificent,  as  the  subject  may  require  ;  wise  observa- 
tions on  human  life  steeped  in  a  poetic  coloring,  and  not  without  touches  of  pathos ; 
a  wonderful  mastery  of  versification,  and  the  aptest  forms  of  expression.  We  read  at 
first  with  admiration,  yet  to  this  erelong  succeeds  a  sense  of  satiety,  and  we  lay 
down  the  book,  not  unwilling,  however,  after  an  interval,  to  take  it  up  with  renewed 
admiration.  I  once  heard  an  eminent  poet  say  that  he  thought  the  second  part  of 
the  Faerie  Queene  inferior  to  the  first ;  yet  I  am  inclined  to  ascribe  the  remark  rather 
to  a  falling  off  in  the  attention  of  the  reader  than  in  the  merit  of  the  work.  A  poet, 
however,  would  be  more  likely  to  persevere  to  the  end  than  any  other  reader,  since 
in  every  stanza  he  would  meet  with  some  lesson  in  his  art. 

In  that  fortunate  age  of  English  literature  arose  a  greater  than  Spenser.  Let  me 
only  say  of  Shakespeare,  that  in  his  dramas,  amid  certain  faults  imputable  to  the 
taste  of  the  English  public,  there  is  to  be  found  every  conceivable  kind  of  poetic  ex- 
cellence. At  the  same  time  and  immediately  after  him  flourished  a  group  of  dra- 
matic poets  who  drew  their  inspiration  from  nature  and  wrote  with  manly  vigor. 
One  would  naturally  suppose  that  their  example,  along  with  the  more  illustrious 
ones  of  Spenser  and  Shakespeare,  would  influence  and  form  the  taste  of  the  succeed- 
ing age  ;  but  almost  before  they  had  ceased  to  claim  the  attention  of  the  public,  and 
while  the  eminent  divines,  Barrow,  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  others,  wrote  nobly  in  prose 
with  a  genuine  eloquence  and  a  fervor  scarcely  less  than  poetic,  appeared  the  school 
of  writers  in  verse  whom  Johnson,  by  a  phrase  the  propriety  of  which  has  been  dis- 
puted, calls  the  metaphysical  poets,  —  a  class  of  wits  whose  whole  aim  was  to  extort 
admiration  by  ingenious  conceits,  thoughts  of  such  unexpectedness  and  singularity 
that  one  wondered  how  they  could  ever  come  into  the  mind  of  the  author.  For  what 
they  regarded  as  poetic  effect  they  depended,  not  upon  the  sense  of  beauty  or  gran- 
deur, not  upon  depth  or  earnestness  of  feeling,  but  simply  upon  surprise  at  quaint 
and  strange  resemblances,  contrasts,  and  combinations  of  ideas.  These  were  deliv- 
ered for  the  most  part  in  rugged  diction,  and  in  numbers  so  harsh  as  to  be  almost 
unmanageable  by  the  reader.  Cowley,  a  man  of  real  genius,  and  of  a  more  musical 
versification  than  his  fellows,  was  the  most  distinguished  example  of  this  school. 
Milton,  born  a  little  before  Cowley,  and  like  him  an  eminent  poet  in  his  teens,  is  al- 
most the  only  instance  of  escape  from  the  infection  of  this  vicious  style  ;  his  genius 
was  of  too  robust  a  mould  for  such  petty  employments,  and  he  would  have  made,  if 
he  had  condescended  to  them,  as  ill  a  figure  as  his  own  Samson  on  the  stage  of  a 
mountebank.  Dryden  himself,  in  some  of  his  earlier  poems,  appears  as  a  pupil  of  this 
school  ;  but  he  soon  outgrew  —  in  greal  part,  at  least  —  the  false  taste  of  the  time, 
and  set  an  example  of  a  nobler  treatment  of  poetic  subjects. 

Yet  though  the  genius  of  Dryden  reacted  against  this  perversion  of  the  art  of  verse, 
it  hud  not  the  power  to  raise  the  poetry  of  our  language  to  the  height  which  it  occu- 
pied in  the  Elizabethan  age.  Within  a  limited  range  he  was  a  true  poet;  his  imagi- 
nation was  far  from  fertile,  nor  had  he  much  skill  in  awakening  emotion,  but  ho 
could  treat  certain  subjects  magnificently  in  verse,  and  often  where  his  imagination 

^ & 


[S — z ^ 

Twin  INTRODUCTION. 


fails  him  he  is  sustained  by  the  vigor  of  his  understanding  and  the  largeness  of  his 
knowledge.  He  gave  an  example  of  versification  in  the  heroic  couplet,  which  has 
commanded  the  admiration  of  succeeding  poets  down  to  our  time,  —  a  versification 
manly,  majestic,  and  of  varied  modulation,  of  which  Pope  took  only  a  certain  part  as 
the  model  of  his  own,  and,  contracting  its  range  and  reducing  it  to  more  regular 
pauses,  made  it  at  first  appear  more  musical  to  the  reader,  but  in  the  end  fatigued 
him  by  its  monotony.  Dry  den  drew  scarcely  a  single  image  from  his  own  observa- 
tion of  external  nature,  and  Pope,  though  less  insensible  than  he  to  natural  beauty, 
was  still  merely  the  poet  of  the  drawing-room.  Yet  he  is  the  author  of  more  happy 
lines,  which  have  passed  into  the  common  speech  and  are  quoted  as  proverbial  say- 
ings, than  any  author  we  have  save  Shakespeare  ;  and,  whatever  may  be  said  in  his 
dispraise,  he  is  likely  to  be  quoted  as  lonjj  as  the  English  is  a  living  language.  The 
footprints  of  Pope  are  not  those  of  a  giant,  but  he  has  left  them  scattered  all  over 
the  field  of  our  literature,  although  the  fashion  of  writing  like  him  has  wholly  passed 
away.  »      i 

Certain  faculties  of  the  poetic  mind  seem  to  have  slumbered  from  the  time  of 
Milton  to  that  of  Thomson,  who  showed  the  literary  world  of  Great  Britain,  to  its 
astonishment,  what  a  profusion  of  materials  for  poetiy  Nature  offers  to  him  who 
directly  consults  her  instead  of  taking  his  images  at  second-hand.  Thomson's  blank 
verse,  however,  is  often  swollen  and  bladdery  to  a  painful  degree.  He  seems  to  have 
imagined,  like  many  other  writers  of  his  time,  that  blank  verse  could  not  support 
itself  without  the  aid  of  a  stilted  phraseology ;  for  that  fine  poem  of  his,  in  the 
Spenserian  stanza,  the  Castle  of  Indolence,  shows  that  when  he  wrote  in  rhyme  he 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  depart  from  a  natural  style. 

Wordsworth  is  generally  spoken  of  as  one  who  gave  to  our  literature  that  impulse 
which  brought  the  poets  back  from  the  capricious  forms  of  expression  in  vogue  before 
his  time  to  a  certain  fearless  simplicity  ;  for  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  until  he 
arose  there  was  scarce  any  English  poet  who  did  not  seem  in  some  degree  to  labor  under 
the  apprehension  of  becoming  too  simple  and  natural, — to  imagine  that  a  certain  pomp 
of  words  is  necessary  to  elevate  the  style  and  make  that  grand  and  noble  which  in 
its  direct  expression  would  be  homely  and  trivial.  Yet  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth 
was  but  the  consummation  of  a  tendency  already  existing  and  active.  Cowper  had 
already  felt  it  in  writing  his  Task,  and  in  his  longer  rhymed  poems  had  not  only  at- 
tempted a  freer  versification  than  that  of  Pope,  but  had  clothed  his  thoughts  in  the 
manly  English  of  the  better  age  of  our  poetry.  Percy's  Reliques  had  accustomed 
English  readers  to  perceive  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  old  ballads  in  their  absolute 
simplicity^  and  shown  how  much  superior  these  were  to  such  productions  as  Percy's 
own  Hermit  of  Warhworih  and  Goldsmith's  Edwin  and  Angelina,  in  their  feeble  ele- 
gance. Burns's  inimitable  Scottish  poems  —  his  English  verses  are  tumid  and  wordy 
—  had  taught  the  same  lesson.  We  may  infer  that  the  genius  of  Wordsworth  was 
in  a  great  degree  influenced  by  these,  just  as  he  in  his  turn  contributed  to  form  the 
taste  of  those  who  wrote  after  him.  It  was  long,  however,  before  he  reached  the 
eminence  which  he  now  holds  in  the  estimation  of  the  literary  world.  His  Lyrical 
Ballads,  published  about  the  close  of  the  last  century,  were  at  first  little  read,  and 

rfe — #> 


INTRODUCTION.  xxix 


a 


of  those  who  liked  them  there  were  few  who  were  not  afraid  to  express  their  admi- 
ration. Yet  his  fame  has  slowly  climbed  from  stage  to  stage  until  now  his  influence 
is  perceived  in  all  the  English  poetry  of  the  day.  If  this  were  the  place  to  criticise 
his  poetry,  I  should  say,  of  his  more  stately  poems  in  blank  verse,  that  they  often 
lack  compression,  —  that  the  thought  suffers  by  too  great  expansion.  Wordsworth 
was  unnecessarily  afraid  of  being  epigrammatic.  He  abhorred  what  is  called  a  point 
as  much  as  Dennis  is  said  to  have  abhorred  a  pun.  Yet  I  must  own  that  even  his 
most  diffuse  amplifications  have  in  them  a  certain  grandeur  that  fills  the  mind. 

At  a  somewhat  later  period  arose  the  poet  Keats,  who  wrote  in  a  manner  which 
carried  the  reader  back  to  the  time  when  those  charming  passages  of  lyrical  enthu- 
siasm were  produced  which  we  occasionally  find  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  in  those 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  in  Milton's  Comus.  The  verses  of  Keats  ai~e  occa- 
sionally disfigured,  especially  in  his  Endymion,  by  a  flatness  almost  childish,  but  in 
the  finer  passages  they  clothe  the  thought  in  the  richest  imagery  and  in  words  each 
of  which  is  a  poem.  Lowell  has  justly  called  Keats  "  over-languaged,"  but  there  is 
scarce  a  word  that  we  should  be  willing  to  part  with  in  his  Ode  to  the  Nightingale, 
and  that  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  and  the  same  thing  may  be  said  of  the  greater  part  of 
his  Hyperion.  His  poems  wei*e  ridiculed  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  but  they  sur- 
vived the  ridicule,  and  now,  fifty  years  after  their  first  publication,  the  poetry  of  the 
present  day,  by  certain  resemblances  of  manner,  testifies  to  the  admiration  with  which 
he  is  still  read. 

The  genius  of  Byron  was  of  a  more  vigorous  mould  than  that  of  Keats  ;  but  not- 
withstanding his  great  popularity  and  the  number  of  his  imitators  at  one  time,  he 
made  a  less  permanent  impression  on  the  character  of  English  poetry.  His  misan- 
thropy and  gloom,  his  scoffing  vein,  and  the  fierceness  of  his  animosities,  after  the 
first  glow  of  admiration  was  over,  had  a  repellent  effect  upon  readers,  and  made  them 
turn  to  more  cheerful  strains.  Moore  had  in  his  time  many  imitators,  but  all  his 
gayety,  his  brilliant  fancy,  his  somewhat  feminine  graces,  and  the  elaborate  music 
of  his  numbers,  have  not  saved  him  from  the  fate  of  being  imitated  no  more.  Cole- 
ridge and  Southey  were  of  the  same  school  with  Wordsworth,  and  only  added  to  the 
effect  of  his  example  upon  our  literature.  Coleridge  is  the  author  of  the  two  most' 
perfect  poetical  translations  which  our  language  in  his  day  could  boast,  those  of 
Schiller's  Piccolomini  and  Death  of  WaUenstein,  in  which  the  English  verse  falls  in  no 
respect  short  of  the  original  German.  Southey  divides  with  Scott  the  honor  of 
writing  the  first  long  narrative  poems  in  our  language  which  can  be  read  without 
occasional  weariness. 

Of  the  later  poets,  educated  in  part  by  the  generation  of  authors  which  produced 
Wordsworth  and  Byron  and  in  part  by  each  other,  yet  possessing  their  individual 
peculiarities,  I  should  perhaps  speak  with  more  reserve.  The  number  of  those  who 
are  attempting  t<>  win  a  name  in  this  walk  of  literature  is  great,  and  several  of  them 
have  already  gained,  and  through  many  years  held,  the  public  favor.  To  some  of 
them  will  be  assigned  an  enduring  station  among  the  eminent  of  their  class. 

There  are  two  tendencies  by  which  the  seekers  after  poetic  fame  in  our  day  are 
apt  to  be  misled,  through   both  the  example  of  others  and  the  applause  of  critics. 

cjg «4£ 


rfh -Eh 

XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

One  of  these  is  the  desire  to  extort  admiration  by  striking  novelties  of  expression ; 
and  the  other,  the  ambition  to  distinguish  themselves  by  subtilties  of  thought, 
remote  from  the  common  apprehension. 

With  regard  to  the  first  of  these  I  have  only  to  say  what  has  been  often  said  be- 
fore, that,  however  favorable  may  be  the  idea  which  this  luxuriance  of  poetic  imagery 
and  of  epithet  at  first  gives  us  of  the  author's  talent,  our  admiration  soon  exhausts 
itself.  We  feel  that  the  thought  moves  heavily  under  its  load  of  garments,  some 
of  which  perhaps  strike  us  as  tawdry  and  others  as  ill-fitting,  and  we  lay  down  the 
book  to  take  it  up  no  more. 

The  other  mistake,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  deserves  more  attention,  since  we  find  able 
critics  speaking  with  high  praise  of  passages  in  the  poetry  of  the  day  to  which  the 
general  reader  is  puzzled  to  attach  a  meaning.  This  is  often  the  case  when  the  words 
themselves  seem  simple  enough,  and  keep  within  the  range  of  the  Saxon  or  house- 
hold element  of  our  language.  The  obscurity  lies  sometimes  in  the  phrase  itself,  and 
sometimes  in  the  recondite  or  remote  allusion.  I  will  not  say  that  certain  minds  are 
not  affected  by  this,  as  others  are  by  verses  in  plainer  English.  To  the  few  it  may 
be  genuine  poetry,  although  it  may  be  a  riddle  to  the  mass  of  readers.  I  remember 
reading  somewhere  of  a  mathematician  who  was  affected  with  a  sense  of  sublimity  by 
the  happy  solution  of  an  algebraical  or  geometrical  problem,  and  I  have  been  assured 
by  one  who  devoted  himself  to  the  science  of  mathematics  that  the  phenomenon  is  no 
uncommon  one.  Let  us  beware,  therefore,  of  assigning  too  narrow  limits  to  the  causes 
which  produce  the  poetic  exaltation  of  mind.  The  genius  of  those  who  write  in  this 
manner  rt\p.j  be  freely  acknowledged,  but  they  do  not  write  for  mankind  at  large. 

To  me  it  seems  that  one  of  the  most  important  requisites  for  a  great  poet  is  a  lu- 
minous style.  The  elements  of  poetry  lie  in  natural  objects,  in  the  vicissitudes  of 
human  life,  in  the  emotions  of  the  human  heart,  and  the  relations  of  man  to  man.  He 
who  can  present  them  in  combinations  and  lights  which  at  once  affect  the  mind  with 
a  deep  sense  of  their  truth  and  beauty  is  the  poet  for  his  own  age  and  the  ages  that 
succeed  it.  It  is  no  disparagement  either  to  his  skill  or  his  power  that  he  finds  them 
near  at  hand  ;  the  nearer  they  lie  to  the  common  track  of  the  human  intelligence, 
the  more  certain  is  he  of  the  sympathy  of  his  own  generation,  and  of  those  which 
shall  come  after  him.  The  metaphysician,  the  subtile  thinker,  the  dealer  in  abstruse 
speculations,  whatever  his  skill  in  versification,  misapplies  it  when  he  abandons  the 
more  convenient  form  of  prose  and  perplexes  himself  with  the  attempt  to  express 
his  ideas  in  poetic  numbers. 

Let  me  say  for  the  poets  of  the  present  day,  that  in  one  important  respect  they 
have  profited  by  the  example  of  their  immediate  predecessors  ;  they  have  learned  to 
go  directly  to  nature  for  their  imagery,  instead  of  taking  it  from  what  had  once  been 
regarded  as  the  common  stock  of  the  guild  of  poets.  I  have  often  had  occasion  to 
verify  this  remark  with  no  less  delight  than  surprise  on  meeting  in  recent  verse  new 
images  in  their  untarnished  lustre,  like  coins  fresh  from  the  mint,  unworn  and  unsoiled 
by  passing  from  pocket  to  pocket.  It  is  curious,  also,  to  observe  how  a  certain  set 
of  hackneyed  phrases,  which  Leigh  Hunt,  I  believe,  was  the  first  to  ridicule,  and 
which  were  once  used  for  the  convenience  of  rounding  out  a  line  or  supplying  a 

i y. 


dEh ^Eb 

INTRODUCTION,  xxxi 

rhyme,  have  disappeared  from  our  poetry,  and  how  our  blank  verse  in  the  hands  of 
the  most  popular  writers  has  dropped  its  stiff'  Latinisms  and  all  the  awkward  distor- 
tions resorted  to  by  those  who  thought  that  by  putting  a  sentence  out  of  its  proper 
shape  they  were  writing  like  Milton. 

I  have  now  brought  this  brief  survey  of  the  progress  of  our  poetry  down  to  the 
present  time,  and  refer  the  reader,  for  samples  of  it  in  the  different  stages  of  its  exist- 
ence, to  those  which  are  set  before  him  in  this  volume. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 
September,  1870. 


B -ff 


S?te^  CUt^  <&k 


// 


<&- 


■a 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


INFANCY. 


PHILIP,   MY  KING. 

"  Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty." 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 
For  round  thee  the  purple  shadow  lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities. 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 

With  Love's  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 
I  am  thine  Esther,  to  command 

Till  thou  shalt  find  thy  queen-handmaiden, 
Philip,  my  king  ! 

0,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 
When  those  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And,  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing, 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and  there 

Sittest  love-glorified  !  —  Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly  over  thy  kingdom  fair  ; 

For  we  that  love,  ah  !  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  king  ! 

I  gaze  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy  brow, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 
The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a  giant,  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  Heaven-chosen  amongst  his  peers. 

My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  higher  and  fairer, 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years  ! 
Yet  thy- head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  king  ;  — 

A  wreath,  not  of  gold,  hut  palm.      One  day, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny,  and  cruel,  and  cold,  and  gray  ; 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without 

Will  snatch    at    thy  crown.     But  march  on, 
glorious, 
Martyr,  yet  monarch  !   till  angels  shout, 
As  thou  sitt'st  at  the  feel  of  God  victorious, 
"Philip,  the  king  !  " 

Dinah  Makia  Mui.ock. 


CRADLE   SONG. 

FROM    "BITTER-SWEET." 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? 
Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt ; 
Unwritten  history  ! 
Unfathomed  mystery  ! 
Yet  he  chuckles,  and  crows,  and  nods,  and  winks, 
As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphinx  ! 
Waiped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears, 
Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by  fears, 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years  ; 
And  he  '11  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go  ; 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he  '11  find  it  so. 

Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks  ? 
Who  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 

By  which  the  manikin  feels  his  way 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
Blind,  and  wailing,  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day  ? 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown  sea, 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony  ; 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls, 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls,  — 
Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side, 
And  slipped  from  heaven  on  an  ebbing  tide  ! 

What  does  he  think  of  bis  mother's  eyes? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair  ? 

What  of  th<-  cradle-roof,  that  Hies 
Forward  and  backward  through  the  air? 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  breast, 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white, 
Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight, 

Cup  of  bis  life,  and  couch  of  his  rest  ? 
What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 

Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell, 

With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell, 

Though  she  murmur  the  words 

Of  all  the  birds,  — 

Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  well  ? 

Now  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleep  ! 

I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 


W 


a- 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


—a 


Over  his  eyes  in  soft  eclipse, 
Over  Ms  brow  and  over  his  lips, 
Out  to  his  little  finger-tips  ! 
Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes  ! 
Down  he  goes  !  down  he  goes  ! 
See  !  he 's  hushed  in  sweet  repose. 

JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND. 


CHOOSING   A   NAME. 

I  HAVE  got  a  new-born  sister  ; 

I  was  nigh  the  first  that  kissed  her. 

"When  the  nursing-woman  brought  her 

To  papa,  his  infant  daughter, 

How  papa's  dear  eyes  did  glisten  !  — 

She  will  shortly  be  to  christen  ; 

And  papa  has  made  the  offer, 

I  shall  have-  the  naming  of  her. 

Now  I  wonder  what  would  please  her,  — 

Charlotte,  Julia,  or  Louisa  ? 

Ann  and  Mary,  they  're  too  common  ; 

Joan  's  too  formal  for  a  woman  ; 

Jane 's  a  prettier  name  beside  ; 

But  we  had  a  Jane  that  died. 

They  would  say,  if  't  was  Eebecca, 

That  she  was  a  little  Quaker. 

Edith  's  pretty,  but  that  looks 

Better  in  old  English  books  ; 

Ellen  's  left  off  long  ago  ; 

Blanche  is  out  of  fashion  now. 

None  that  I  have  named  as  yet 

Are  so  good  as  Margaret.  / 

Emily  is  neat  and  fine  ; 

"What  do  you  think  of  Caroline  ? 

How  I  'm  puzzled  and  perplexed 

"What  to  choose  or  think  of  next  ! 

I  am  in  a  little  fever 

Lest  the  name  that  I  should  give  her 

Should  disgrace  her  or  defame  her  ;  — 

I  will  leave  papa  to  name  her. 

Mary  Lamb. 


BABY   MAY. 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches  ; 
Lips  whose  dewy  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness  ;  round  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise  ; 
Minutes  filled  with  shadeless  gladness  ; 
Minutes  just  as  brimmed  with  sadness  ; 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries  ; 
Crows,  and  laughs,  and  tearful  eyes  ; 
Lights  ami  shadows,  swifter  born 
Than  on  wind-swept  autumn  com  ; 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion. 


Making  every  limb  all  motion  ; 
Catchings  up  of  legs  and  arms  ; 
Throwings  back  and  small  alarms  ; 
Clutching  fingers  ;  straightening  jerks  ; 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works  ; 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings  ; 
Mother's  ever  new  surprisings  ; 
Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under  ; 
Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings  ; 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness  that  we  prize  such  sinning  ; 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses  ; 
G  raspings  small  at  all  that  passes  ; 
Pullings  off  of  all  that 's  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table  ; 
Silences,  —  small  meditations 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations  ; 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches  ; 
All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  wooed  to  light  by  guessing  ; 
Slumbers,  —  such  sweet  angel-seemings 
That  we  'd  ever  have  such  dreamings  ; 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
And  we  d  always  have  thee  waking  ; 
"Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure  ; 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure  ; 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness  ; 
Joy  in  care  ;  delight  in  sadness  ; 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness  ; 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness  ; 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be  ;  — 
That 's  May  Bennett ;  that 's  my  baby. 

William  C.  Bennett. 


BABY  BYE. 

Baby  Bye, 

Here 's  a  fly  ; 

Let  us  watch  him,  you  and  I. 

How  he  crawls 

Up  the  walls, 

Yet  he  never  falls  ! 
I  believe  with  six  such  legs 
You  and  I  could  walk  on  eggs. 

There  he  goes 

On  his  toes, 

Tickling  Baby's  nose. 

Spots  of  red 

Dot  his  head  ; 

Rainbows  on  his  back  are  spread  ; 

That  small  speck 

Is  his  neck  ; 

See  him  nod  and  beck. 


10- 


■ff 


INFANCY. 


a 


I  can  show  you,  if  you  choose, 
Where  to  look  to  find  Ins  shoes,  — 

Three  small  pairs, 

Made  of  hairs  ; 

These  he  always  wears. 

Black  and  brown 

Is  his  gown  ; 

He  can  wear  it  upside  down  ; 

It  is  laced 

Round  his  waist ; 

I  admire  his  taste. 
Yet  though  tight  his  clothes  are  made, 
He  will  lose  them,  I  'm  afraid, 

If  to-night 

He  gets  sight 

Of  the  candle-light. 

In  the  sun 

Webs  are  spun  ; 

What  if  he  gets  into  one  ? 

When  it  rains 

He  complains 

On  the  window-panes. 
Tongue  to  talk  have  you  and  I ; 
God  has  given  the  little  fly 

No  such  things, 

So  he  sings 

With  his  buzzing  wings. 

He  can  eat 

Bread  and  meat  ; 

There 's  his  mouth  between  his  feet. 

On  his  back 

Is  a  pack 

Like  a  pedler's  sack. 
Does  the  baby  understand  ? 
Then  the  fly  shall  kiss  her  hand  ; 

Put  a  crumb 

On  her  thumb, 

Maybe  he  will  come. 

Catch  liim  ?    No, 

Let  him  go, 

Never  hurt  an  insect  so  ; 

But  no  doubt 

II'  flics  out 

Just  to  gad  about. 
Now  you  Bee  las  wings  of  silk 
Drabbled  in  the  baby's  milk  ; 

Fie,  0  fie, 

Foolish  fly  ! 

How  will  he  get  dry  ? 

All  wet  flies 

Twist  their  thighs  ; 

Thus  they  wipe  their  heads  and  eyes  ; 

Cats,  you  know, 

Wasli  just  so, 

Then  their  whiskers  grow. 


Flies  have  hairs  too  short  to  comb, 
So  they  fly  bareheaded  home  ; 

But  the  gnat 

Wears  a  hat. 

Do  you  believe  that  ? 

Flies  can  see 

More  than  we, 

So  how  bright  their  eyes  must  be  ! 

Little  fly, 

Ope  your  eye  ; 

Spiders  are  near  by. 
For  a  secret  I  can  tell,  — 
Spiders  never  use  flies  well. 

Then  away 

Do  not  stay. 

Little  fly,  good  day. 

Theodore  Tilton. 


WILLIE   WINKIE. 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town, 
Up  stairs  and  doon  stairs,  in  his  nicht-gown, 
Tirlin'  at  the  window,  cryin'  at  the  lock, 
"  Are  the  weans  in  their  bed  ?  —  for  it 's  now  ten 
o'clock." 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie  !  are  ye  comin'  ben  ? 

The   cat's   singin'  gay  thrums  to  the   sleepin' 

hen, 
The  doug  's  speldered  on  the  floor,  and  disna  gie 

a  cheep  ; 
But  here 's   a   waukrife   laddie,  that  winna   fa' 

asleep. 

Ony  thing  but  sleep,  ye  rogue  :  —  glow'rin'  like 

the  moon, 
Rattlin'  in  an  aim  jug  wi'  an  aim  spoon, 
Rumbiin',  tumblin'  roun'  about,  crawin'  like  a 

cock, 
Skirlin'  like  a  kenna-what  —  wauknin'  -sleepin 

folk  ! 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie  !  the  wean 's  in  a  creel ! 
Waumblin'  aff  a  bodie's  knee  like  a  vera  eel, 
Ruggin'  at  the  cat's   lug,  and    ravellin'    a'  hei 

thrums  : 
Hey,  Willie  Winkie  !  —  See,  there  he  comes  ! 

Wearie  is  the  mither  that,  has  a  storie  wean, 

A    wee    stumpie    stoussie,    that   canna    rin   his 

lane, 

That  has  a  battle  aye  wi'  sleep,  before  he'll  close 

an  ee  ; 

But  a  kiss  frae  aff  his  rosy  lips  gies   strength 

anew  to  me. 

William  Mii.lkk. 


--S1 


a 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


LITTLE   PUSS. 

Sleek  coat,  eyes  of  lire, 
Four  paws  that  never  tire, 
That 's  puss. 

"Ways  playful,  tail  on  high, 
Twisting  often  toward  the  sky, 
That 's  puss. 

In  the  larder,  stealing  meat, 
Patter,  patter,  little  feet, 
That 's  puss. 

After  hall,  reel,  or  string, 
"Wild  as  any  living  thing, 
That 's  puss. 

Pound  and  round,  after  tail, 
Fast  as  any  postal  mail, 
That 's  puss. 

Curled  up,  like  a  hall, 
On  the  door-mat  in  the  hall, 
That 's  puss. 

Purring  loud  on  missis'  lap, 
Having  toast,  then  a  nap, 
That 's  puss. 

Black  as  night,  with  talons  long, 
Scratching,  which  is  very  wrong, 
That 's  puss. 

From  a  saucer  lapping  milk, 
Soft,  as  soft  as  washing  silk, 
That 's  puss. 

Polling  on  the  dewy  grass, 
Getting  wet,  all  in  a  mass, 
That 's  puss. 

Climhing  tree,  and  catching  hird, 
Little  twitter  nevermore  heard, 
That 's  puss. 

Killing  fly,  rat,  or  mouse, 
As  it  runs  ahout  the  house, 
That 's  puss. 

Pet  of  missis,  "  Itte  mite," 

Never  must  be  out  of  sight, 

That 's  puss. 


ANONYMOUS. 


NURSE'S  WATCH. 

[From  the  "  Boy's  Horn  of  Wonders,"  a  German  Book  of  Nursery 
Rhymes.] 

The  moon  it  shines, 

My  darling  whines  ; 
The  clock  strikes  twelve  :  —  God  cheer 
The  sick,  both  far  and  near. 


God  knoweth  all ; 

Mousy  nibbles  in  the  wall ; 
The  clock  strikes  one  :  —  like  day, 
Dreams  o'er  thy  pillow  play. 

The  matin-bell 

"Wakes  the  nun  in  convent  cell ; 
The  clock  strikes  two  :  —  they  go 
To  choir  in  a  row. 

The  wind  it  blows, 

The  cock  he  crows  ; 
The  clock  strikes  three  :  —  the  wagoner 
In  his  straw  bed  begins  to  stir. 

The  steed  he  paws  the  floor, 

Creaks  the  stable-door ; 
The  clock  strikes  four  :  —  't  is  plain, 
The  coachman  sifts  his  grain. 

The  swallow's  laugh  the  still  air  shakes, 

The  sun  awakes ; 
The  clock  strikes  five  :  —  the  traveller  must  be 

gone, 
He  puts  his  stockings  on. 

The  hen  is  clacking, 

The  ducks  are  quacking  ; 
The  clock  strikes  six  :  —  awake,  arise, 
Thou  lazy  hag  ;  come,  ope  thy  eyes. 

Quick  to  the  baker's  run  ; 

The  rolls  are  done  ; 
The  clock  strikes  seven  :  — 
'T  is  time  the  milk  were  in  the  oven. 

Put  in  some  butter,  do, 

And  some  fine  sugar  too  ; 
The  clock  strikes  eight  :  — 
Now  bring  my  baby's  porridge  straight. 

Translation  of  Charles  T.  Brooks. 


BABY  LOUISE. 

I  'm  in  love  with  you,  Baby  Louise  ! 
"With  your  silken  hair,  and  your  soft  blue  eyes, 
And  the  dreamy  wisdom  that  in  them  lies, 
And  the  faint,  sweet  smile  you  brought  from  the 
skies,  — 

God's  sunshine,  Baby  Louise. 

When  you  fold  your  hands,  Baby  Louise, 
Your  hands,  like  a  fairy's,  so  tiny  and  fair, 
With  a  pretty,  innocent,  saint-like  air, 
Are  you  trying  to  think  of  some  angel-taught 
prayer 

You  learned  above,  Baby  Louise  1 


=& 


■B 


iS- 


INFANCY. 


ft 


I  'm  in  love  with  you,  Baby  Louise  !  — 
Why  !  you  never  raise  your  beautiful  head  ! 
Some  day,  little  one,  your  cheek  will  grow  red 
With  a  flush  of  delight,  to  hear  the  words  said, 

"  I  love  you,"'  Baby  Louise. 

Do  you  hear  me,  Baby  Louise  ? 
I  have  sung  your  praises  for  nearly  an  hour, 
And  your  lashes  keep  drooping  lower  and  lower, 
And  — -  you  've  gone  to  sleep,  like  a  weary  flower, 

Ungrateful  Baby  Louise  ! 

°  J  M.   E. 


LULLABY. 


FROM        THE    PRINCESS. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


THE   ANGEL'S   WHISPER. 

In  Ireland  they  have  a  pretty  fancy,  that,  when  a  child  smiles  in 
its  sleep,  it  is  "  talking  with  angels." 

A  baby  was  sleeping  ; 

Its  mother  was  weeping  ; 
For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging  sea  ; 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling 

Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling  : 
Ami  she  cried,  "Dermot,  darling,  0  come  back 
to  me  ! " 

Her  beads  while  she  numbered, 

The  baby  still  slumbered, 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  shi-  bended  her  knee  : 

"0,  blest  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with 
thee. 

"And  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 


0,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me  ! 
And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 
They  'd  watch  o'er  thy  father  ! 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to 
thee." 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 

Saw  Dermot  returning, 

And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see  ; 

And  closely  caressing 

Her  child  with  a  blessing, 

:  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering 

with  thee." 

Samuel  Lover. 


Said, 


TO   CHARLOTTE   PULTENEY. 

Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair, 
Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
Their  solicitous  delight, 
Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease, 
Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please  ; 
Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale, 
Tattling  many  a  broken  tale, 
Singing  many  a  tuneless  song, 
Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue  ; 
Simple  maiden,  void  of  art, 
Babbling  out  the  very  heart, 
Yet  abandoned  to  thy  will, 
Yet  imagining  no  ill, 
Yet  too  innocent  to  blush  ; 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush 
To  the  motherdinnet's  note 
Moduling  her  slender  throat ; 
Chirping  forth  thy  petty  joys, 
Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys, 
Like  the  linnet  green,  in  May 
Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray  ; 
Wearied  then  and  glad  of  rest, 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest  > — ■ 
This  thy  present  happy  lot, 
This  in  time  will  be  forgot : 
Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 
Ever  busy  Time  prepares  ; 
And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughter  see, 
This  picture,  once,  resembled  thee. 

AMBROSE  PHILIPS. 


TO   MY   INFANT   SON. 

Tiiorj  happy,  happy  elf  ! 
(But  stop,  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear,) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself  ! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear,) 
Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite, 
With  spirits,  feather  light, 


IS- 


tf 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


-a 


Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin  ; 
(My  dear,  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin  ! ) 

Thuu  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  rings  the  air,  — 

(The  door  !    the  door  !    he  '11  tumble  down  the 

stair  ! ) 
Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he  '11  set  his  pinafore  afire  ! ) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy  ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  bright  a  link, 

Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  ;  —  (Drat  the  boy  ! 
There  goes  my  ink.) 

Thou  cherub,  buf  of  earth  ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  fairies,  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 
(That  dog  will  bite  him,  if  he  pulls  his  tail  ! ) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny,  — 
(Another  tumble  !  That 's  his  precious  nose  ! ) 
Thy  father's  pride  and  hope  ! 
(He  '11   break  that  mirror  with  that   skipping- 
rope  ! ) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature's 

mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ? ) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 

(He  '11  have  that  ring  off  with  another  shove,) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest  ! 

(Are  these  torn  clothes  his  best  ? ) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  plan,) 

Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning 

life, 
(He 's  got  a  knife  ! ) 
Thou  enviable  being  ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John  ! 
Toss  the  light  ball,  bestride  the  stick,  — 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  !) 

With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 
With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk  ! 

(He 's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown  ! ) 
Thou  pretty  opening  rose  ! 
(Go    to    your    mother,    child,    and   wipe    your 

nose  ! ) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  ! ) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove  ; 
(I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unless  he's  sent  above.) 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE   LOST   HEIR. 

"  O  where,  and  O  where 
Is  my  bonnie  laddie  gone  I "  —  OLD  SONG. 

One  day,  as  I  was  going  by 

That  part  of  Holborn  christened  High, 

I  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  cry 

That  chilled  my  very  blood  ; 
And  lo  !  from  out  a  dirty  alley, 
Where  pigs  and  Irish  wont  to  rally, 
I  saw  a  crazy  woman  sally, 

Bedaubed  with  grease  and  mud. 
She  turned  her  East,  she  turned  her  West, 
Staring  like  Pythoness  possest, 
With  streaming  hair  and  heaving  breast, 

As  one  stark  mad  with  grief. 

"0  Lord  !  0  dear,  my  heart  will  break,  I  shall 

go  stick  stark  staring  wild  ! 
Has  ever  a  one  seen  anything  about  the  streets 

like  a  crying  lost-looking  child  ? 
Lawk  help  me,  I  don't  know  where  to  look,  or  to 

run,  if  I  only  knew  which  way  — 
A  Child  as  is  lost  about  London  streets,  and  es- 
pecially Seven   Dials,  is   a  needle  in   a 

bottle  of  hay. 
I  am  all  in  a  quiver  —  get  out  of  my  sight,  do, 

you  wretch,  you  little  Kitty  M'Nab  ! 
You  promised  to  have  half  an  eye  to  him,  you 

know  you  did,  you  dirty  deceitful  young 

drab. 
The  last  time  as  ever  I  see  him,  poor  thing,  was 

with  my  own  blessed  Motherly  eyes, 
Sitting  as  good  as  gold  in  the  gutter,  a  playing 

at  making  little  dirt-pies. 
I  wonder  he  left  the  court,  where  he  was  better 

off  than  all  the  other  young  boys, 
With  two  bricks,  an  old  shoe,  nine  oyster-shells, 

and  a  dead  kitten  by  way  of  toys. 
When  his  Father  comes  home,   and  he  always 

comes  home  as  sure   as   ever  the  clock 

strikes  one, 
He'll  be  rampant,  he  will,  at   his  child  being 

lost ;   and  the  beef  and  the   inguns   not 

done  ! 
La  bless  you,  good  folks,  mind  your  own  con- 
earns,  and  don't  be  making  a  mob  in  the 

street  ; 
0  Sergeant  M'Farlane  !  you  have  not  come  across 

my   poor   little   boy,  have  you,  in  your 

beat? 
Do,  good  people,  move  on  !  don't  stand  staring 

at  me  like  a  parcel  of  stupid  stuck  pigs  ; 
Saints  forbid  !  but   he 's  p'r'aps  been  inviggled 

away  up  a  court  for  the  sake  of  his  clothes 

by  the  priggs  ; 
He  'd  a  very  good  jacket,  for  certain,  for  I  bought 

it  myself  for  a  shilling  one  day  in  Rag 

Fair; 


•ff 


INFANCY. 


ft 


And   Lis   trousers   considering    not  veiy  much 

patched,  and  red  plush,  they  was  once  his 

Father's  best  pair. 
His  shirt,  it 's  very  lucky  I  'd  got  washing  in  the 

tub,  or   that  might  have  gone  with  the 

rest ; 
But  he  'd  got  on  a  very  good  pinafore  with  only 

two  slits  and  a  burn  on  the  breast. 
He  'd   a  goodish  sort  of  hat,  if  the  crown   was 

sewed  in,  and  not  quite  so  much  jagged  at 

the  brim. 
With  one  shoe  on,  and  the  other  shoe  is  a  boot, 

and  not  a  fit,  and  you  '11  know  by  that 

if  it 's  him. 
And  then  he  has  got  such  dear  winning  ways  — 

but  0,   I  never,  never  shall  see  him  no 

more  ! 

0  dear  !  to  think  of  losing  him  just  after  missing 

him  back  from  death's  door  ! 
Only  the  very  last  month  when  the  windfalls, 

hang  'em,  was  at  twenty  a  penny  ! 
And  the  threepence  he'd  got  by  grottoing  was 

spent  in  plums,  and  sixty  for  a  child  is 

too  many. 
And  the  Cholera  man  came  and  whitewashed  us 

all,  and,  drat  him  !  made  a  seize  of  our 

hog. — 
It 's  no  use  to  send  the  Crier  to  cry  him  about, 

he 's  such  a  blunderin'  drunken  old  dog  ; 
The  last  time  he  was  fetched  to  find  a  lost  child 

he   was   guzzling    with   his   bell   at   the 

Crown, 
And  went  and  cried  a  boy  instead  of  a  girl,  for 

a   distracted   Mother   and   Father  about 

Town. 
Billy  —  where  are  you,  Billy,  I  say  ?  come,  Billy, 

come  home,  to  your  best  of  Mothers  ! 

1  'm  scared  when  I  think  of  them  Cabroleys,  they 

drive  so,  they  'd  run  over  their  own  Sisters 

and  Brothers. 
Or  maybe  he 's  stole  by  some  dumbly-sweeping 

wretch,  to  stick  fast  in  narrow  flues  and 

what  not, 
And  be  poked  up  behind  with  a  picked  pointed 

pole,  when  the  soot  has  ketched,  and  the 

chimbly's  red  hot. 
0,  I  M  give  the  whole  wide  world,  if  the  world 

was  mine,  to  clap  my  two  longin'  eyes  on 

Ins  face. 
For  he 's  my  darlin'  of  darlin's,  and  if  hi'  don't 

soon  come  back,  you'll  see  me  drop  stone 

dead  on  the  place. 
I  only  wish  I  'd  got  him  safe  in  these  two  Moth- 
erly arms,  and  wouldn't   I  hug  him  and 

kiss  him  ! 
Lawk  !  !  never  knew  whal  a  precious  he  was  — 

but  a  child  don't  not  feel  like  a  child  till 

you  miss  him. 


Why,  there  he  is  !  Punch  and  Judy  hunting,  the 
young  wretch,  it's  that  Billy  as  sartin 
as  sin  ! 

But  let  me  get  him  home,  with  a  good  grip  of 

his  hair,  and  I  'm  blest  if  he  shall  have  a 

whole  bone  in  his  skin  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


LITTLE   RED   RIDING   HOOD 

Come  back,  come  back  together, 

All  ye  fancies  of  the  past, 
Ye  days  of  April  weather, 

Ye  shadows  that  are  cast 

By  the  haunted  hours  before  ! 
Come  back,  come  back,  my  Childhood  ; 

Thou  art  summoned  by  a  spell 
From  the  green  leaves  of  the  wildwood, 

From  beside  the  charmed  well, 

For  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ! 

The  fields  were  covered  over 

With  colors  as  she  went ; 
Daisy,  buttercup,  and  clover 

Below  her  footsteps  bent ; 

Summer  shed  its  shining  store  ; 
She  was  happy  as  she  pressed  them 

Beneath  her  little  feet  ;    / 
She  plucked  them  and  caressed  them  ; 

They  were  so  very  sweet, 

They  had  never  seemed  so  sweet  before, 
To  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

How  the  heart  of  childhood  dances 

Upon  a  sunny  day  ! 
It  has  its  own  romances, 

And  a  wide,  wide  world  have  they  ! 
A  world  where  Phantasie  is  king, 
Made  all  of  eager  dreaming  ; 

When  once  grown  up  and  tall  — 
Now  is  the  time  for  scheming  — 
Then  We  shall  do  them  all  ! 

Do  such  pleasant  fancies  spring 
For  Red  Hiding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ? 

She  seems  like  an  ideal  love, 
The  poetry  of  childhood  shown, 

And  yet  loved  with  a  real  love, 

As  if  she  were  our  own,  — 
A  younger  sister  for  the  heart  ; 
Like  the  woodland  pheasant, 

Her  hair  is  brown  and  bright ; 
And  her  smile  is  pleasant, 

With  its  rosy  light. 

Never  can  the  memory  part 


■ff 


10 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


-a 


"With  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

Did  the  painter,  dreaming 

In  a  morning  hour, 

Catch  the  fairy  seeming 

Of  this  fairy  flower  ! 

Winning  it  with  eager  eyes 
From  the  old  enchanted  stories, 
Lingering  with  a  long  delight 
On  the  unforgotten  glories 
Of  the  infant  sight  ? 

Giving  us  a  sweet  surprise 
In  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ? 

Too  long  in  the  meadow  staying, 

"Where  the  cowslip  hends, 
"With  the  buttercups  delaying 
As  with  early  friends, 

Did  the  little  maiden  stay. 
Sorrowful  the  tale  for  us  ; 

"We,  too,  loiter  mid  life's  flowers, 
A  little  while  so  glorious, 
So  soon  lost  in  darker  hours. 

All  love  lingering  on  their  way, 
Like  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

L^etitia  Elizabeth  Landon. 


THE  CHILDREN   IX  THE  WOOD. 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear, 

The  words  which  I  shall  write  ; 
A  doleful  story  you  shall  hear, 

In  time  brought  forth  to  light  : 
A  gentleman,  of  good  account, 

In  Norfolk  lived  of  late, 
"Whose  wealth  and  riches  did  surmount 

Most  men  of  his  estate. 

Sore  sick  he  was,  and  like  to  die, 

No  help  then  he  could  have  ; 
His  wife  by  him  as  sick  did  lie, 

And  both  possessed  one  grave. 
No  love  between  these  two  was  lost, 

Each  was  to  other  kind  ; 
In  love  they  lived,  in  love  they  died, 

And  left  two  babes  behind  : 

The  one  a  fine  and  pretty  boy, 

Not  passing  three  years  old  ; 
The  other  a  girl,  more  young  than  he, 

And  made  in  beauty's  mould. 
The  father  left  his  little  son, 

As  plainly  doth  appear, 
When  he  to  perfect  age  should  come, 

Three  hundred  pounds  a  year,  — 


And  to  his  little  daughter  Jane 

Five  hundred  pounds  in  gold, 
To  be  paid  down  on  marriage-day, 

Which  might  not  be  controlled  ; 
But  if  the  children  chanced  to  die 

Ere  they  to  age  should  come, 
Their  uncle  should  possess  their  wealth, 

For  so  the  will  did  run. 

"Now,  brother,"  said  the  dying  man, 

' '  Look  to  my  children  dear  ; 
Be  good  unto  my  boy  and  girl, 

No  friends  else  I  have  here." 
With  that  bespake  their  mother  dear, 

"0  brother  kind,"  quoth  she, 
' '  You  are  the  man  must  bring  our  babes 

To  wealth  or  misery. 

"And  if  yon  keep  them  carefully, 

Then  God  will  you  reward  ; 
If  otherwise  you  seem  to  deal, 

God  will  j'our  deeds  regard." 
With  lips  as  cold  as  any  stone 

She  kissed  her  children  small : 
"  God  bless  you  both,  my  children  dear," 

With  that  the  tears  did  fall. 

Their  parents  being  dead  and  gone, 

The  children  home  he  takes, 
And  brings  them  home  unto  Ms  house, 

And  much  of  them  he  makes. 
He  had  not  kept  these  pretty  babes 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
But,  for  their  wealth,  he  did  devise 

To  make  them  both  away. 

He  bargained  with  two  ruffians  strong, 

"Which  were  of  furious  mood, 
That  they  should  take  these  children,  young, 

And  slay  them  in  a  wood. 
He  told  his  wife,  and  all  he  had 

He  did  the  children  send 
To  be  brought  up  in  fair  London, 

With  one  that  was  his  friend. 

Away  then  went  these  pretty  babes, 

Rejoicing  at  that  tide, 
Rejoicing  with  a  merry  mind, 

They  should  on  cock-horse  ride  ; 
They  prate  and  prattle  pleasantly, 

As  they  rode  on  the  way, 
To  those  that  should  their  butchers  be, 

And  work  their  lives'  decay, 

So  that  the  pretty  speech  they  had 

Made  Murder's  heart  relent ; 
And  they  that  undertook  the  deed 

Full  sore  they  did  repent. 


-B3 


-n- 


INFANCY. 


11 


Yet  one  of  them,  more  hard  of  heart, 

Did  vow  to  do  his  charge, 
Because  the  wretch  that  hired  him 

Had  paid  him  very  large. 

The  other  would  not  agree  thereto, 

So  here  they  fell  at  strife  ; 
With  one  another  they  did  fight, 

About  the  children's  life  ; 
And  he  that  was  of  mildest  mood 

Did  slay  the  other  there, 
Within  an  unfrequented  wood  ; 

Wlule  babes  did  quake  for  fear. 

He  took  the  children  by  the  hand 

When  tears  stood  in  their  eye, 
And  bade  them  come  and  go  with  him, 

And  look  they  did  not  cry  ; 
And  two  long  miles  he  led  them  on, 

While  they  for  food  complain  : 
"  Stay  here,"  quoth  he,  "I  '11  bring  you  bread 

When  I  do  come  again." 

These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand, 

Went  wandering  up  and  down, 
But  nevermore  they  saw  the  man 

Approaching  from  the  town. 
Their  pretty  lips  with  blackberries 

Were  all  besmeared  and  dyed, 
And  when  they  saw  the  darksome  night 

They  sate  them  down  and  cried. 

Thus  wandered  these  two  pretty  babes 

Till  death  did  end  their  grief ; 
In  one  another's  arms  they  died, 

As  babes  wanting  relief. 
No  burial  this  pretty  pair 

Of  any  man  receives, 
Till  robin  redbreast,  painfully, 

Did  cover  them  with  leaves. 

And  now  the  heavy  wrath  of  God 

Upon  their  uncle  fell  ; 

fearful  fiends  did  haunt  his  house, 

1 1  is  conscience  felt  an  hell. 
His  barns  were  fired,  his  goods  consumed, 

His  lands  were  barren  made  ; 
His  cattle  died  within  the  field, 

And  nothing  with  him  stayed. 

And,  in  the  voyage  of  Portugal, 

Two  of  his  sons  did  die  ; 
And,  to  conclude,  himself  was  brought 

To  extreme  misery. 
He  pawned  and  mortgaged  all  his  land 

Eire  seven  years  came  about  ; 
And  now,  at  length,  this  wicked  act 

Did  by  this  means  come  out  : 


The  fellow  that  did  take  in  hand 

These  children  for  to  kill 
Was  for  a  robber  judged  to  die, 

As  was  God's  blessed  will ; 
Who  did  confess  the  very  truth, 

The  which  is  here  expressed  ; 
Their  uncle  died  while  he,  for  debt, 

In  prison  long  did  rest. 

You  that  executors  be  made, 

And  overseers  eke, 
Of  children  that  be  fatherless, 

And  infants  mild  and  meek, 
Take  you  example  by  tins  thing, 

And  yield  to  each  his  right, 
Lest  God  with  such-like  misery 

Your  wicked  minds  requite. 


AXOXYMOU& 


A   MOTHER'S   LOYE. 

A  little  in  the  doorway  sitting, 

The  mother  plied  her  busy  knitting  ; 

And  her  cheek  so  softly  smiled, 

You  might  be  sure,  although  her  gaze 

Was  on  the  meshes  of  the  lace, 

Yet  her  thoughts  were  with  her  child. 

But  when  the  boy  had  heard  her  voice, 
As  o'er  her  work  she  did  rejoice, 
His  became  silent  altogether  ; 
And  slyly  creeping  by  the  wall, 
He  seized  a  single  plume,  let  fall 
By  some  mid  bird  of  longest  feather  ; 
And,  all  a-tremble  with  his  freak, 
He  touched  her  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

O,  what  a  loveliness  her  eyes 

Gather  in  that  one  moment's  space, 

While  peeping  round  the  post  she  spies 

Her  darling's  laughing  face  ! 

O,  mother's  love  is  glorifying, 

On  the  cheek  like  sunset  lying  ; 

In  the  eyes  a  moistened  light. 

Softer  than  the  moon  at  night  ! 

Thomas  Burbidce. 


THE   GAMBOLS   OF   CHILDREN. 

DOWN  the  dimpled  greensward  dancing 
Bursts  a  flaxen-headed  bevy,  — 

Bud-lipt  boys  and  girls  advancing, 
Love's  irregular  little  levy. 

Rows  of  liquid  eyes  in  laughter, 

How  they  glimmer,  how  they  quiver  ! 

Sparkling  one  another  after, 
Like  bright  ripples  on  a  river. 


c& 


-~w 


3- 


12 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


^ 


Tipsy  band  of  rubious  faces, 

Flushed  with  Joy's  ethereal  spirit, 

Make  your  mocks  and  sly  grimaces 
At  Love's  self,  and  do  not  fear  it. 

GEORGE  DARLEY. 


-♦ 


UNDER   MY   WINDOW. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

All  in  the  Midsummer  weather, 
Three  little  girls  with  fluttering  curls 

Flit  to  and  fro  together  :  — 
There 's  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 

And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

Leaning  stealthily  over, 
Merry  and  clear,  the  voice  I  hear, 

Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 
Ah  !  sly  little  Kate,  she  steals  my  roses  ; 
And  Maud  and  Bell  twine  wreaths  and  posies, 

As  merry  as  bees  in  clover. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
In  the  blue  Midsummer  weather, 

Stealing  slow,  on  a  hushed  tiptoe, 
I  catch  them  all  together  :  — 

Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 

And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 
And  Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
And  off  through  the  orchard  closes  ; 

While  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she  pouts, 
They  scamper  and  drop  their  posies  ; 

But  dear  little  Kate  takes  naught  amiss, 

And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a  loving  kiss, 
And  I  give  her  all  my  roses. 

THOMAS  WESTWOOD. 


THE   MOTHER'S   HEART. 

WHEN  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond, 
My  eldest  born,  first  hope,  and  dearest  treasure, 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure  ; 

Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 

So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 


Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years, 
And  natural  piety  that  leaned  to  heaven  ; 

Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears, 
Yet  patient  to  rebuke  when  justly  given  ; 

Obedient,  easy  to  be  reconciled, 

And    meekly   cheerful  ;    such    wert    thou,    my 
child  ! 


Not  willing  to  be  left  —  still  by  my  side, 

Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer-day  was 
dying; 

Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn,  but  pleased  to  glide 
Through  the  dark  room   where   I   was  sadly 

lying; 

Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek, 
Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  fevered  cheek. 

0  boy  !  of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth's  fragile  idols  ;  like  a  tender  flower, 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness,  prone  to  fade, 
And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder-shower  ; 

Still,  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force  to 
bind, 

And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind  ! 

Then  thou,  my  merry  love,  —  bold  in  thy  glee, 
Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  dancing, 

With  thy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  spirit  free,  — 
Didst  come,  as  restless  as  a  bird's  wing  glan- 
cing, 

Full  of  a  wild  and  irrepressible  mirth, 

Like  a  young  sunbeam  to  the  gladdened  earth  ! 

Thine  was  the  shout,  the  song,  the  burst  of  joy, 
Which   sweet  from   childhood's   rosy  lip   re- 
soundeth  ; 
Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  naught  could  cloy, 
And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief  re- 
boundeth  ; 
And  many  a  mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply 
Lurked  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye. 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless, 
The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness  wann- 
ing ; 
The  coaxing  smile,  the  frequent  soft  caress, 
The  earnest,  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  disarm- 
ing ! 
Again  my  heart  a  new  affection  found, 
But  thought  that  love  with  thee  had  reached  its 
bound. 

At  length  thott   earnest,  —  thou,  the   last  and 
least, 
Nicknamed  "the  Emperor"  by  thy  laughing 
brothers, 
Because  a  haughty  spirit  swelled  thy  breast, 
And  thou  didst   seek   to   rule   and  sway  the 
others, 
Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A  mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile. 


And  0,  most  like  a  regal  child  wert  thou  ! 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming  ! 
Fair  shoulders,  curling  lips,  and  dauntless  brow, 

Fit  for  the  world's  strife,  not  for  poet's  dream- 
ing ; 


JZJ" 


INFANCY. 


13 


^ 


And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 
And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

Different  from  both  !  yet  each  succeeding  claim 
I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 

Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same  ; 
Nor  injured  either  by  this  love's  comparing, 

Nor  stole  a  fraction  for  the  newer  call,  — 

But  in  the  mother's  heart  found  room  for  all  ! 

CAROLINE  E.  NORTON. 


THE   MOTHER'S   HOPE. 

Is  there,  when  the  winds  are  singing 
In  the  happy  summer  time,  — 

"When  the  raptured  air  is  ringing 

With  Earth's  music  heavenward  springing, 
Forest  chirp,  and  village  chime,  — 

Is  there,  of  the  sounds  that  float 

Unsighingly,  a  single  note 

Half  so  sweet,  and  clear,  and  wild, 

As  the  laughter  of  a  child  ? 

Listen  !  and  be  now  delighted  : 

Mora  hath  touched  her  golden  strings  ; 

Earth  and  Sky  their  vows  have  plighted  ; 

Life  and  Light  are  reunited 
Amid  countless  carollings  ; 

Yet,  delicious  as  they  are, 

There 's  a  sound  that 's  sweeter  far,  — 

One  that  makes  the  heart  rejoice 

More  than  all,  —  the  human  voice  ! 

Organ  finer,  deeper,  clearer, 

Though  it  be  a  stranger's  tone,  — 

Than  the  winds  or  waters  dearer, 

More  enchanting  to  the  hearer, 
For  it  answereth  to  his  own. 

But,  of  all  its  witching  words, 

Those  are  sweetest,  bubbling  wild 

Through  the  laughter  of  a  child. 

Harmonies  from  time-touched  towers, 

Haunted  .strains  from  rivulets, 
Hum  nf  bees  among  the  flowers, 
Rustling  leaves,  and  silver  showers,  — 

These,  erelong,  the  ear  forgets  ; 
But  in  mine  there  is  a  sound 
Ringing  on  the  whole  year  round,  — 
Heart-deep  laughter  that  I  heard 
Ere  my  child  could  speak  a  word. 

Ah  !   't  was  heard  by  ear  far  purer, 

Fondlier  formed  to  cateh  the  strain, — 

Ear  of  one  whose  love  is  surer,  — 

Hers,  the  mother,  the  endurer 
Of  the  deepest  share  of  pain  ; 


Hers  the  deepest  bliss  to  treasure 
Memories  of  that  cry  of  pleasure  ; 
Hers  to  hoard,  a  lifetime  after, 
Echoes  of  that  infant  laughter. 

'T  is  a  mother's  large  affection 

Hears  with  a  mysterious  sense,  — 
Breathings  that  evade  detection, 
Whisper  faint,  and  fine  inflection, 

Thrill  in  her  with  power  intense. 
Childhood's  honeyed  words  untaught 
Hiveth  she  in  loving  thought,  — 
Tones  that  never  thence  depart ; 
For  she  listens  —  with  her  heart. 

Laman  Blanchard. 


THE    MOTHER'S    STRATAGEM. 

AN  INFANT  PLAYING  NEAR  A  PRECIPICE. 

While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels, 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall, 

See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals  ! 
0,  fly  — -  yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall.  — 

Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 

And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 

LEONIDAS  of  Alexandria  (Greek).     Translation 
of  Samuel  Rogers. 


THE   PET   LAMB. 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to  blink  ; 
I  heard  a  voice  ;  it  said,  "Drink,  pretty  creature, 

drink  !  " 
And,  looking  o'er  the  hedge,  before  me  I  espied 
A  snow-white  mountain-lamb  with  a  maiden  at 

its  side. 

Nor  sheep  nor  kine  were  near  ;  the  lamb  was 

all  alone, 
And  by  a  slender  cord  was  tethered  to  a  stone  ; 
With    one    knee   on   the   grass   did   the    little 

maiden  kneel, 
While   to    that    mountain-lamb    she    gave    its 

evening  meal. 

The   lamb,  while  from  her  hand   he  thus  his 

supper  took, 
Seemed  to  feast  with  head   and   ears  ;   and  his 

tail  with  pleasure  shook. 
"Drink,  pretty    creature,  drink  !  "  she  said,  in 

such  a  tone 
That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own. 

'T  was  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite,  a  child  of 

beauty  rare  ' 
['watched    them    with   delight:    they    were    a 

lovely  pair. 


J 


14 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


H 


Now  with  her  empty  can  the  maiden  turned  away ; 
But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone,  her  footsteps  did 
she  stay. 

Eight  towards  the  lamh  she  looked  ;  and  from  a 

shady  place 
I  unobserved  could  see  the  workings  of  her  face. 
If  nature  to  her  tongue  could  measured  numbers 

bring, 
Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  lamb  that  little  maid 

might  sing :  — 

"What  ails  thee,  young  one?  —  what?    Why 

pull  so  at  thy  cord  ? 
Is  it  not  well  with  thee  ?  —  well  both  for  bed  and 

board  ? 
Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as  grass  can  be  ; 
Rest,   little   young  one,  rest ;  what  is  't   that 

aileth  thee  ? 

"  Thou  know'st  that  twice  a  day  I  have  brought 

thee  in  this  can 
Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as  ever  ran  ; 
And  twice  in  the  day,  when  the  ground  is  wet 

with  dew, 
I  bring  thee  draughts  of  milk,  —  warm  milk  it 

is,  and  new. 

"Thy  limbs  -will  shortly  be  twice  as  stout  as 

they  are  now  ; 
Then  I  '11  yoke  thee  to  my  cart  like  a  pony  in 

the  plough. 
My  playmate  thou  shalt  be  ;  and  when  the  wind 

is  cold, 
Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house  shall  be 

thy  fold. 

"  Here  thou  need'st  not  dread  the  raven  in  the 

sky  ; 
Night  and  day  thou  art  safe,  —  our  cottage  is 

hard  by. 
Why  bleat  so  after  me  ?  Why  pull  so  at  thy  chain  ? 
Sleep,  and  at  break  of  day  I  will  come  to  thee 

again  !  " 

As  homeward  through  the  lane  I  went  with  lazy 

feet, 
This  song  to  myself  did  I  oftentimes  repeat  ; 
And  it  seemed,  as  I  retraced  the  ballad  line  by 

line, 
That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one  half  of  it 

was  mine. 

Again,  and  once  again,  did  I  repeat  the  song  ; 
"  Nay,"  said  I,  "  more  than  half  to  the  damsel 

must  belong, 
For  she  looked  with  such  a  look,  and  she  spake 

with  such  a  tone, 

That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own." 

William  Wordsworth. 


SEVEN   TIMES   ONE. 

There  's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover, 

There 's  no  rain  left  in  heaven. 
I  've  said  my  "  seven  times  "  over  and  over,  — 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old,  —  so  old  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done. 
The  lambs  play  always,  —  they  know  no  better  ; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  Moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low. 
You  were  bright  —  ah,  bright  —  but  your  light 
is  failing  ; 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  Moon  !  have  you  done  something  wrong  in 
heaven, 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope,  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  be  forgiven, 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

0  velvet  Bee  !  you  're  a  dusty  fellow,  — 
You  've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold. 

0  brave  marsh  Mary-buds,  rich  and  yellow, 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold  ! 

0  Columbine  !  open  your  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell  ! 

0  Cuckoo-pint  !  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 

That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 

And  show  me  your  nest,  with  the  young  ones  in 
it, — 
I  will  not  steal  them  away  : 

1  am  old  !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet  ! 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

Jean  Incelow 


WE  AEE  SEVEN. 

A  simple  child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl  : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad  ; 

Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair  ;  — 
Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 


INFANCY. 


a 


15 


"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ? " 
"  How  many  ?     Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  they  ?     I  pray  you  tell." 

She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea  ; 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother  ; 
And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !     I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  maid  ; 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied  : 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit ; 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 

And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"  And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"The  first  that  died  was  Sister  Jane  ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain  ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  ihe  churchyard  she  was  laid  ; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  COUld  run  and  slide, 
My  brotheT  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 


"  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 

"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ? " 
Quick  was  the  little  maid's  reply  : 

"  0  Master  !  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !  "  — 

'T  was  throwing  words  away  ;  for  still 

The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  !  " 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO   A  CHILD,    DURING   SICKNESS. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy  ; 
And  balmy  rest  about  thee 
Smooths  off  the  day's  annoy. 
I  sit  me  down,  and  think 
Of  all  thy  winning  ways  ; 
Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 
That  I  had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillowed  meekness  ; 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid  ; 
Thy  heart,  in  pain  and  weakness, 
Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 

The  little  trembling  hand 
That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears,  — 
These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 
Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I  've  had,  severe  ones, 

I  will  not  think  of  now  ; 
And  calmly,  midst  my  dear  ones, 
Have  wasted  with  dry  brow  ; 
But  when  thy  fingers  press 
And  pat  my  stooping  head, 
I  cannot  bear  the  gentleness,  — 
The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Ah,  first-born  of  thy  mother, 

"When  lift?  and  hope  were  new  ; 
Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother, 
Thy  sister,  father  too  ; 

My  light,  where'er  I  go  ; 
My  bird,  when  prison-bound  ; 
My  hand-in-hand  companion  —  No, 
My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say,  "  He  has  departed"  — 

"His  voice "  —  "  his  face "  —  is  gone, 
To  feel  impatient-hearted, 
Vet  fed  we  must  bear  on,  — 

Ah,  1  could  not  endure 
To  whisper  of  such  woe, 
Unless  I  fell  this  sleep  insure 
That  it  will  not  be  so. 


tr 


<B 


16 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


a 


Yes,  still  lie  's  fixed,  ami  sleeping  ! 

This  silence  too  the  while,  — 
Its  very  hush  and  creeping 
Seem  whispering  us  a  smile  ; 
Something  divine  and  dim 
Seems  going  by  one's  ear, 
Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim, 

Who  say,  ' '  We  've  finished  here. " 

Leigh  Hunt. 


BABY'S   SHOES. 

0,  those  little,  those  little  blue  shoes  ! 
Those  shoes  that  no  little  feet  use. 

0  the  price  were  high 

That  those  shoes  would  buy, 
Those  little  blue  unused  shoes  ! 

For  they  hold  the  small  shape  of  feet 
That  no  more  their  mother's  eyes  meet, 

That,  by  God's  good  will, 

Years  since,  grew  still, 
And  ceased  from  their  totter  so  sweet. 

And  0,  since  that  baby  slept, 

So  hushed,  how  the  mother  has  kept, 

With  a  tearful  pleasure, 

That  little  dear  treasure, 
And  o'er  them  thought  and  wept  ! 

For  they  mind  her  forevermore 
Of  a  patter  along  the  floor  ; 

And  blue  eyes  she  sees 

Look  up  from  her  knees 
With  the  look  that  in  life  they  wore. 

As  they  lie  before  her  there, 
There  babbles  from  chair  to  chair 

A  little  sweet  face 

That 's  a  gleam  in  the  place, 
With  its  little  gold  curls  of  hair. 

Then  0  wonder  not  that  her  heart 
From  all  else  would  rather  part 

Than  those  tiny  blue  shoes 

That  no  little  feet  use, 
And  whose  sight  makes  such  fond  tears  start  ! 

WILLIAM  C.  BENNETT. 


4-. 


OUR  WEE  WHITE  ROSE. 

All  in  our  marriage  garden 

Grew,  smiling  up  to  God, 
A  bonnier  flower  than  ever 

Suckt  the  green  warmth  of  the  sod  ; 
0  beautiful  unfathomably 

Its  little  life  unfurled  ; 
And  crown  of  all  things  was  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 


From  out  a  balmy  bosom 

Our  bud  of  beauty  grew  ; 
It  fed  on  smiles  for  sunshine, 

On  tears  for  daintier  dew  : 
Aye  nestling  warm  and  tenderly, 

Our  leaves  of  love  were  curled 
So  close  and  close  about  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

With  mystical  faint  fragrance 

Our  house  of  life  she  filled  ; 
Revealed  each  hour  some  fairy  tower 

Where  winged  hopes  might  build  ! 
We  saw  —  though  none  like  us  might  see  — 

Such  precious  promise  pearled 
Upon  the  petals  of  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

But,  evermore  the  halo 

Of  angel  -light  increased, 
Like  the  mystery  of  moonlight 

That  folds  some  fairy  feast. 
Snow-white,  snow-soft,  snow-silently 

Our  darling  bud  up-curled, 
And  dropt  i'  the  grave  —  God's  lap  —  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

Our  Rose  was  but  in  blossom, 

Our  life  was  but  in  spring, 
When  down  the  solemn  midnight 

We  heard  the  spirits  sing, 
"  Another  bud  of  infancy 

With  holy  dews  impearled  !  " 
And  in  their  hands  they  bore  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

You  scarce  could  think  so  small  a  thing 

Could  leave  a  loss  so  large  ; 
Her  little  light  such  shadow  fling 

From  dawn  to  sunset's  marge. 
In  other  springs  our  life  may  be 

In  bannered  bloom  unfurled, 
But  never,  never  match  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

Gerald  Massey. 


PICTURES   OF   MEMORY. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall 
Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all  ; 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 

Dark  with  the  mistletoe  ; 
Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below  ; 


-# 


INFANCY. 


■ft 


17 


Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  ledge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  golden  edge  ; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland, 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I  'once  had  a  little  brother, 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep  ; 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep  : 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago  ; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 
Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face  ; 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 

ALICE  CARY. 


THE   PET   NAME. 

"  The  name 
Which  from  THEIR  lips  seemed  a  caress." 

MISS  Mitford's  Dramatic  Scenes. 

I  HAVE  a  name,  a  little  name, 

Uncadenced  for  the  ear, 
Unhonored  by  ancestral  claim, 
anctiiied  by  prayer  and  psalm 

The  solemn  font  anear. 

It  never  did,  to  pages  wove 

For  gay  romai ,  belong. 

It  never  dedicate  did  move 
As  "Sacharissa,"  unto  love, — 

"Orinda,"  unto  song. 

Though  I  write  books,  it  will  be  read 

Upon  the  leaves  of  none, 
And  afterward,  when  1  am  dead, 
■A'ill  ne'er  be  graved  for  siglil  or  tread, 

Across  my  funeraLstone. 
2 


This  name,  whoever  chance  to  call 

Perhaps  your  smile  may  win. 
Nay,  do  not  smile  !  mine  eyelids  fall 
Over  mine  eyes,  and  feel  withal 

The  sudden  tears  within. 

Is  there  a  leaf  that  greenly  grows 

Where  summer  meadows  bloom, 
But  gathereth  the  winter  snows, 
And  changeth  to  the  hue  of  those, 
If  lasting  till  they  come  ? 

Is  there  a  word,  or  jest,  or  game, 

But  time  eucrusteth  round 
With  sad  associate  thoughts  the  same  ? 
And  so  to  me  my  very  name 

Assumes  a  mournful  sound. 

My  brother  gave  that  name  to  me 
When  we  were  children  twain,  — 

When  names  acquired  baptismally 

Were  hard  to  utter,  as  to  see 
That  life  had  any  pain. 

No  shade  was  on  us  then,  save  one 

Of  chestnuts  from  the  hill,  — 
And  through  the  word  our  laugh  did  run 
As  part  thereof.     The  mirth  being  done, 
He  calls  me  by  it  still. 

Nay,  do  not  smile  !  I  hear  in  it 

What  none  of  you  can  hear,  — 
The  talk  upon  the  willow  seat, 
The  bird  and  wind  that  did  repeat 
Around,  our  human  cheer. 

I  hear  the  birthday's  noisy  bliss, 

My  sisters'  woodland  glee,  — 
My  father's  praise  I  did  not  miss, 
When,  stooping  down,  he  cared  to  kiss 

The  poet  at  his  knee,  — 

And  voices  which,  to  name  me,  aye 
Their  tenderesl  tones  were  keeping,  — 

To  some  1  nevermore  can  say 

An  answer,  till  God  wipes  away 
In  heaven  these  drops  of  weeping. 

My  name  to  me  a  sadness  wears  ; 

No  murmurs  cross  my  mind. 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  these  thick  tears, 
Which  show,  of  those  departed  years, 

Sweet  memories  left  behind. 

Now  God  be  thanked  for  years  enwrought 

With  love  w  Inch  softens  yet. 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  every  thought 
Which  is  so  tender  it  lias  caught 

'i's  guerdon  of  regret. 


# 


a- 


18 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


Earth  saddens,  never  shall  remove, 

Affections  purely  given  ; 

And  e'en  that  mortal  grief  shall  prove 

The  immortality  of  love, 

And  heighten  it  with  Heaven. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


MY   MOTHER'S   PICTURE. 

OUT  OF  NORFOLK,  THE  GIFT  OF  MY  COUSIN,  ANN  BODHAM. 

0  that  those  lips  had  language  !    Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine,  —  thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve   not,    my   child;    chase   all   thy  fears 

away  ! " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize,  — 
The  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it ! )  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear  ! 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
"Who  bid'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  —  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief,  — 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother !  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son,  — 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss  ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss  — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers  —  Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day  ; 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away  ; 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ? — It  was.  —  Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown  ; 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more. 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return  ; 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived,  — 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 


Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more ; 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor  ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way,  — 
Delighted  with  my  bawble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm  and  velvet  cap,  — 
'T  is  now  become  a  history  little  known 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  !  but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes,  less  deeply  traced  : 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightstknow  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home,  — 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum  ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own   hand,    till   fresh  they   shone  and 

glowed,  — 
All  this,. and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall,  — 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes  ; 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may,  — 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere,  — 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 
Could   time,  his  flight   reversed,  restore    the 
hours 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flow- 
ers, — 
The  violet,  the  pink,  the  jessamine,  — 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while  — 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and 

smile,)  — 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 

here  ? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart,  ■ —  the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 
But  no,  —  what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou  —  as  a  gallant  bark,  from  Albion's  coast, 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed,) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 
Where  spiees  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile  ; 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay,  — 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift  !  hast  reached  the 

shore 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar  "  ; 


* 


INFANCY. 


19 


ft 


And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed,  — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass 

lost ; 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  0,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  !  — 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise,  — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell  !  —  Time,  unrevoked,  has  run 
His  wonted  course  ;  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again,  — 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
"Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft,  — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


William  Cowper. 


THE    MITHERLESS    BAIRN. 

[An  Inverary  correspondent  writes  :  "  Thorn  gave  me  the  fol- 
lowing narrative  as  to  the  origin  of  '  The  Mitherless  Bairn ' ;  I 
quote  his  own  words.  '  When  I  was  livin'  in  Aberdeen,  I  was 
limping  roun'  the  house  to  my  garret,  when  I  heard  the  greetin'  o' 
a  wean.  A  lassie  was  thumpin'  a  bairn,  when  out  cam  a  big 
dame,  bellowin'  "Ye  hussie,  will  ye  lick  a  mitherless  bairn  1  "  I 
hobled  up  the  stair  and  wrote  the  sang  afore  sleepinV  "] 

WHEN  a'  ither  bairnies  are  hushed  to  their  hame 
By  aunty,  or  cousin,  or  frecky  grand-daine, 
"Wha  stands  last  and  lanely,  an'  naebody  carin'  ? 
'T  is  the   puir   doited  loonie,  —  the  mitherless 
bairn  ! 

The  mitherless  bairn  gangs  to  his  lane  bed; 
Nane  covers  his  cauld  back,  or  haps  his  bare 

head ; 
His  wee  hackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the  aim, 
An'  litheless  the  lair  o'  the  mitherless  bairn. 

Aneath  his  cauld  brow  siccan  dreams  hover  there, 
0'  hands  thai  wont  kindly  to  kame  his  dark  hair  ; 
But  mornin'  brings  clutches,  a'  reckless  an'  stern, 
That  lo'e  nae  the  locks  o'  the  mitherless  bairn  ! 

Yon  Bister  thai  sang  o'er  bis  saftly  rocked  bed 
Now  rests  in  the  mools  where  her  mammie  is 
laid  ; 


The  father  toils  sair  their  wee  bannock  to  earn, 
An'  kens  na  the  wrangs  o'  his  mitherless  bairn. 

Her  spirit,  that  passed  in  yon  hour  o'  his  birth, 
Still  watches  his  wearisome  wanderings  on  earth 
Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings  they  earn 
Wha  couthilie  deal  wi'  the  mitherless  bairn  ! 


0,  speak   him   na  harshly, — he  trembles   the 

while, 
He  bends  to  your  bidding,  and  blesses  your  smile  ; 
In  their  dark  hour  o'  anguish  the  heartless  shall 

learn 

That  God  deals  the  blow,  for  the  mitherless  bairn ! 

William  Thom. 


I   REMEMBER,    I   REMEMBER, 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn. 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day  ; 
But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups,  — 

Those  (lowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swine. 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  ; 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  againsl  the  sky. 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  't  is  little  joj 
To  know  1  'in  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  1  was  a  boy. 

Timmas  Hoorx 


4- 


9 


a- 


20 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


-a 


YOUTH. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SWAN'S  NEST. 


Little  Ellie  sits  alone 
Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow, 

By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass, 

And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow, 

On  her  shming  hah  and  face. 

II. 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by, 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 

In  the  shallow  water's  flow. 

Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands  all  sleek  and  dripping, 

AVhde  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 

ill. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone, 
And  the  smile  she  softly  uses 

Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech, 

While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done,  • 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses 

For  her  future  within  reach. 

IV. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooses  ...  "I  will  hare  a  lover, 

Eiding  on  a  steed  of  steeds  ! 

He  shall  love  me  without  guile, 
And  to  //  iiii  I  will  discover 

The  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 


"  And  the  steed  shall  be  red-roan, 
And  the  lover  shall  be  noble, 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath. 

And  the  lute  he  plays  upon 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble, 

As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 

VI. 

"And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  in  sijver,  housed  in  azure, 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind  ; 

And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 
Shall  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 

Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

VII. 


"  But  my  lover  will  not  prize 
All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in, 


When  he  gazes  in  my  face. 
He  will  say,  '  0  Love,  thine  eyes 
Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  in, 
And  I  kneel  here  for  thy  grace.' 

VIII. 

"Then,  ay  then  —  he  shall  kneel  low, 
With  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him, 

Which  shall  seem  to  understand  — 

Till  I  answer,  '  Rise  and  go  ! 
For  the  world  must  love  and  fear  him 

Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand.' 

IX. 

"Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 
I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 

With  a  yes  I  must  not  say  ; 

Nathless  maiden -brave,  'Farewell* 
I  will  utter,  and  dissemble  ;  — 

'  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day.' 


"  Then  he  '11  ride  among  the  hills 
To  the  wide  world  past  the  river, 

There  to  put  away  all  wrong  ; 

To  make  straight  distorted  wills, 
And  to  empty  the  broad  quiver 

Which  the  wicked  bear  along. 

XI. 

"Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  mountain 

And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet ;  — 

'  Lo,  my  master  sends  this  gage, 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting  ! 

What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it  ? ' 

XII. 

"And  the  first  time,  I  will  send 
A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon,  — 

And  the  second  time,  a  glove  ; 

But  the  third  time,  I  may  bend 
From  my  pride,  and  answer,  '  Pardon, 

If  he  comes  to  take  my  love.' 

XIII. 

"  Then  the  young  foot -page  will  run,  — 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster, 

Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee  : 

'  I  am  a  duke's  eldest  son  ! 
Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master,  — 

But,  O  Love,  I  love  but  thee  ! ' 


& 


•B3 


NATURE'S     TEACHING 


Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
A  nd  beauty  horn  of  murmuring  sound 
Shall  f>ass  into  her  face." 


£3- 


YOUTH. 


■a 


21 


XIV. 

"  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his  deeds  ; 

And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth, 
Unto  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds." 

XV. 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly, 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe, 

And  went  homeward,  round  a  mile, 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

What  more  eggs  were  with  the  two. 

XVI. 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse, 
Winding  up  the  stream,  light-hearted, 

"Where  the  osier  pathway  leads,  — 

Past  the  boughs  she  stoops  —  and  stops. 
Lo,  the  wild  swan  had  deserted, 

And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds. 

XVII. 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow. 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever, 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds, 

Sooth  I  know  not !  but  I  know 
She  could  never  show  him  —  never, 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds  ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


SWEET  STREAM,    THAT  WINDS  — 

SWEET  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade, 

Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid,  — 

Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along, 

Far  from  the  world's  gay,  busy  throng  ; 

With  gentle  jfet  prevailing  force, 

Intent  upon  her  destined  course  ; 

Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does, 

Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes  ; 

Pure-bosomed  as  that  watery  glass, 

And  Heaven  reflected  in  her  face. 

W.  COWPER. 


THE  EDUCATION   OF  NATURE. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 
Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown  : 
This  child  1  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 


"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse  ;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm, 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
E'en  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  .form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake.    The  work  was  done,  — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene  ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  nevermore  will  be. 

W.  WORDSWORTH. 


NARCISSA, 

"YOUNG,  gay,  and  fortunate!"   Each  yields  a 

theme. 
And,  first,  thy  youth  :  what  says  it  to  gray  hairs  ? 
Narcissa,  I  'm  become  thy  pupil  now  ;  — 
Early,  bright,  transient,  chaste  as  morning  dew, 
She  sparkled,  was  exhaled,  and  went  to  heaven. 

Dr.  Edward  YOUNG. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden  !  with  the  meek  brown  eyes, 

In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 


ta- 


~& 


22 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


ft 


Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun,  — 
Golden  tresses  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet  ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more, 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 

0  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  Life  hath  snares  ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  {hy  hand  ; 
Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 
One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

0,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 

For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


THE   PRETTY   GIRL   OF   LOCH   DAN. 

The  shades  of  eve  had  crossed  the  glen 
That  frowns  o'er  infant  Avonmore, 

When,  nigh  Loch  Dan,  two  weaiy  men, 
We  stopped  before  a  cottage  door. 

"  God  save  all  here,"  my  comrade  cries, 
And  rattles  on  the  raised  latch-pin  ; 

"God  save  you  kindly,"  quick  replies 
A  clear  sweet  voice,  and  asks  us  in. 

We  enter  ;  from  the  wheel  she  starts, 

A  rosy  girl  with  soft  black  eyes  ; 
Her  fluttering  court' sy  takes  our  hearts, 

Her  blushing  grace  and  pleased  surprise. 

Poor  Mary,  she  was  quite  alone, 

For,  all  the  way  to  Glenmalure, 
Her  mother  had  that  morning  gone, 

And  left  the  house  in  charge  with  her. 

But  neither  household  cares,  nor  yet 
The  shame  that  startled  virgins  feel, 

Could  make  the  generous  girl  forget 
Her  wonted  hospitable  zeal. 

She  brought  us  in  a  beechen  bowl 

Sweet  milk  that  smacked  of  mountain  thyme, 
Oat  cake,  and  such  a  yellow  roll 

Of  butter,  —  it  gilds  all  my  rhyme  ! 

And,  while  we  ate  the  grateful  food 
(AVith  weary  limbs  on  bench  reclined), 

Considerate  and  discreet,  she  stood 
Apart,  and  listened  to  the  wind. 

Kind  wishes  both  our  souls  engaged, 
From  breast  to  breast  spontaneous  ran 

The  mutual  thought,  ■ —  we  stood  and  pledged 
The  modest  rose  above  Loch  Dan. 

' '  The  milk  we  drink  is  not  more  pure, 
Sweet  Mary,  —  bless  those  budding  charms  !  — ■ 

Than  your  own  generous  heart,  I  'm  sure, 
Nor  whiter  than  the  breast  it  warms  ! " 

She  turned  and  gazed,  unused  to  hear 
Such  language  in  that  homely  glen  ; 

But,  Mary,  you  have  naught  to  fear, 
Though  smiled  on  by  two  stranger-men. 

Not  for  a  crown  would  I  alarm 
Your  virgin  pride  by  word  or  sign, 

Nor  need  a  painful  blush  disarm 

My  friend  of  thoughts  as  pure  as  mine. 


-# 


\B- 


YOUTH. 


23 


a 


Her  simple  heart  could  not  but  feel 

The  words  we  spoke  were  free  from  guile  ; 

She  stooped,  she  blushed,  she  fixed  her  wheel, 
'Tis  all  in  vain,  — she  can't  but  smile  ! 

Just  like  sweet  April's  dawn  appears 
Her  modest  face,  —  I  see  it  yet,  — 

And  though  I  lived  a  hundred  years 
Methinks  I  never  could  forget 

The  pleasure  that,  despite  her  heart, 
Fills  all  her  downcast  eyes  with  light, 

The  lips  reluctantly  apart, 

The  white  teeth  struggling  into  sight, 

The  dimples  eddying  o'er  her  cheek,  — 
The  rosy  cheek  that  won't  be  still ;  — 

0,  who  could  blame  what  flatterers  speak, 
Did  smiles  like  this  reward  their  skill  ? 

For  such  another  smile,  I  vow, 

Though  loudly  beats  the  midnight  rain, 
I  'd  take  the  mountain-side  e'en  now, 


And  walk  to  Luggelaw  again  ! 


Samuel  Ferguson. 


tB- 


THREAD   AND   SONG. 

Sweeter  and  sweeter, 

Soft  and  low, 
Neat  little  nymph, 

Thy  numbers  flow, 
Urging  thy  thimble, 
Thrift's  tidy  symbol, 
Busy  and  nimble, 

To  and  fro ; 
Prettily  plying 

Thread  and  song, 
Keeping  them  flying 

Late  and  long, 
Through  the  stitch  linger, 
Kissing  thy  finger, 

Quick,  —  as  it  skips  along. 

Many  an  echo, 

Soft  and  low, 
Follows  thy  flying 

Fancy  so,  — 
Melodies  thrilling, 
Tenderly  ailing 
Thee  with  their  trilling, 

( lome  and  go  ; 
Memory's  anger, 

Quick  as  thine, 
Loving  tii  linger 

<  >n  the  line, 
Writes  of  another, 

I  fearer  than  brother  : 

Would  that  the  name  were  mine  ! 

J.  W.   PALMER. 


TO    THE    HIGHLAND    GIRL    OF 
INVERSNAID. 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  ; 

And  these  gray  rocks,  this  household  lawn, 

These  trees,  — a  veil  just  half  withdrawn,  — . 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake, 

This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode  ; 

In  truth  together  ye  do  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream  ; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 

But  0  fair  Creature  !  in  the  light 

Of  common  day  so  heavenly  bright, 

I  bless  thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years  ! 

I  neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers  ; 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  1  am  far  away  ; 
For  never  saw  I  mien  or  face 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scattered  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  mountaineer  ; 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread, 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred  ; 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech,  — 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 
So  have  1,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving.kind, 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

"What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
Fur  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 
0  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell  ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  dress, 
A  shepherd,   thou  a  shepherdess  ! 
lint   I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality  : 


tf 


n  .- 


24 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


■a 


Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 

Of  the  wild  sea  ;  and  I  would  have 

Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  1  could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighborhood. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 

Thy  elder  brother  1  would  be, 

Thy  father,  —  anything  to  thee. 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 

Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place  ; 

Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 

I  bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 

Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes  : 

Then  why  should  I  be  loath  to  stir  ? 

I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her  ; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I  loath,  though  pleased  at  heart, 

Sweet  Highland  Girl  !  from  thee  to  part ; 

For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 

And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all ! 

w.  Wordsworth. 


A   PORTRAIT. 

"  One  name  is  Elizabeth."— '■  BEN  JONSON. 

I  will  paint  her  as  I  see  her. 
Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 

And  her  face  is  lily-clear, 

Lily-shaped,  and  dropped  in  duty 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  cheeks  encolored  faintly, 
Which  a  trail  of  golden  hair 
Keeps  from  fading  off  to  air  ; 

And  a  forehead  fair  and  saintly, 
Which  two  blue  eyes  undershine, 
Like  meek  prayers  before  a  shrine. 

Face  and  figure  of  a  child,  — 
Though  too  calm,  you  think,  and  tender, 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend  her. 

Yet  child-simple,  undefiled, 

Frank,  obedient,  —  waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moving  light,  as  all  your  things,' 
A  -  young  birds,  or  early  wheat, 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 


Only,  free  from  flutterings 

Of  loud  mirth  that  scorneth  measure,  — 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  pleasure. 

Choosing  pleasures,  for  the  rest, 
Which  come  softly,  — just  as  she, 
When  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 

Quiet  talk  she  liketh  best, 
In  a  bower  of  gentle  looks,  — 
Watering  flowers,  or  reading  books. 

And  her  voice,  it  murmurs  lowly, 
As  a  silver  stream  may  run, 
Which  yet  feels,  you  feel,  the  sun. 

And  her  smile,  it  seems  half  holy, 
As  if  drawn  from  thoughts  more  far 
Than  our  common  jestings  are. 

And  if  any  poet  knew  her, 

He  would  sing  of  hex  with  falls 
Used  in  lovely  madrigals. 

And  if.  any  painter  drew  her, 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  the  hair. 

And  if  reader  read  the  poem, 

He  would  whisper,  "You  have  done  a 
Consecrated  little  Una." 

And  a  dreamer  (did  you  show  him 
That  same  picture)  would  exclaim, 
"  'T  is  my  angel,  with  a  name  !  " 

And  a  stranger,  when  he  sees  her 
In  the  street  even,  smileth  stilly, 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lily. 

And  all  voices  that  address  her 
Soften,  sleeken  every  word, 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird. 

And  all  fancies  yearn  to  cover 

The  hard  earth  whereon  she  passes, 
With  the  thymy-scented  grasses. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray,  "  God  love  her  !  "  — 

Ay,  and  always,  in  good  sooth, 

We  may  all  be  sure  He  doth. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


THE   CHILDREN'S   HOUR. 

BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  children's  hour. 


<&-- 


-ff 


YOUTH. 


■a 


25 


I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper  and  then  a  silence  ; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall, 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded, 

They  enter  my  castle  wall. 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret, 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  : 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  intwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 

Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


JENNY  KISSED   ME. 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in. 

Time,  you  thief!  who  love  to  gel 
Sweets  into  your  List,  put  that  in. 

Say  I  'm  weary,  say  I  'm  sad  ; 

Say  thai  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me  ; 

Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add  — 

Jenny  kissed  me  ! 

Leigh  hunt. 


I  FEAR  THY  KISSES,  GENTLE  MAIDEN. 

I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden  ; 

Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 
My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 

Ever  to  burden  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion  ; 

Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 
Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 

With  which  I  worship  thine. 

P.   B.   SHELLEY. 


THE  SMACK  IN   SCHOOL. 

A  district  school,  not  far  away, 

Mid  Berkshire  hills,  one  winter's  day, 

"Was  humming  with  its  wonted  noise 

Of  threescore  mingled  girls  and  boys  ; 

Some  few  upon  their  tasks  intent, 

But  more  on  furtive  mischief  bent. 

The  while  the  master's  downward  look 

Was  fastened  on  a  copy-book  ; 

When  suddenly,  behind  his  back, 

Rose  sharp  and  clear  a  rousing  smack  ! 

As  't  were  a  battery  of  bliss 

Let  off  in  one  tremendous  kiss  ! 

"What's  that  ?"  the  startled  master  cries  ; 

"That,  thir,"  a  little  imp  replies, 

"  Wath  William  Willith,  if  you  pleathe,  — 

I  thaw  him  kith  Thuthanna  Feathe  !  " 

With  frown  to  make  a  statue  thrill, 

The  master  thundered,  "  Hither,  Will ! " 

Like  wretch  overtaken  in  his  track, 

With  stolen  chattels  on  his  back, 

Will  hung  his  head  in  fear  and  shame, 

And  to  the  awful  presence  came,  — 

A  great,  green,  bashful  simpleton, 

The  butt  of  all  good-natured  fun. 

With  smile  suppressed,  and  birch  upraised, 

The  threatener  faltered,  —  "I  'm  amazed 

That  you,  my  biggest  pupil,  should 

Be  guilty  of  an  act  so  rude  ! 

Before  the  whole  set  school  to  boot  — 

What  evil  genius  put  you  to't?" 

"'Twas  she  herself,  si;,"  sobbed  the  lad, 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  bad  ; 

But  when  Susannah  shook  her  curls, 

And  whispered,  1  was  'IVaid  of  girls, 

And  dursn't  kiss  a  baby's  doll, 

I  could  n't  stand  it,  sir,  at  all, 

But  up  and  kissed  her  on  the  spot ! 

I  know  —  boo-hoo  —  I  ought  to  not, 

But,  sonielmw,  from  her  looks  —  boo-hoo  — 


I  thought  she  kind 


wished  me  to  !  " 

J.  w.  Taliier. 


-ff 


a- 


26 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


ft 


OLD-SCHOOL   PUNISHMENT. 

Old  Master  Brown  brought  his  ferule  down, 

And  his  face  looked  angry  and  red. 
"  Go,  seat  you  there,  now,  Anthony  Blair, 

Along  with  the  girls,"  he  said. 
Then  Anthony  Blair,  with  a  mortified  air, 

With  his  head  down  on  his  breast,   . 
Took  his  penitent  seat  by  the  maiden  sweet 

That  he  loved,  of  all,  the  best. 
And  Anthony  Blair  seemed  whimpering  there,' 

But  the  rogue  only  made  believe  ; 
For  he  peeped  at  the  girls  with  the  beautiful  curls, 

And  ogled  them  over  his  sleeve. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  BAREFOOT   BOY.  ' 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
"With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill  ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace  ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

0  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine  ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 


For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

0  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the*garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall  ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond. 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

0  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra  ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  hoy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat ' 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 


tfr 


£ 


YOUTH. 


a 


Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil  : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


BOYHOOD. 

Ah,  then  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded  days  ! 
The  minutes  parting  one  by  one  like  rays, 

That  fade  upon  a  summer's  eve. 
But  0,  what  charm  or  magic  numbers 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slumbers 

Those  weary,  happy  days  did  leave  ? 
When  by  my  bed  I  saw  my  mother  kneel, 

And  with  her  blessing  took  her  nightly  kiss  ; 

Whatever  Time  destroys,  he  cannot  this  ;  — 
E'en  now  that  nameless  kiss  I  feel. 

Washington  allston. 


IT  NEVER  COMES  AGAIN. 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
Tin Te  are  balms  for  all  our  pain, 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign  ; 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain  ; 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


THE   DESERTED   GARDEN. 

I  mind  me  in  the  days  departed, 
How  often  underneath  the  sun 
With  childish  bounds  I  used  to  run 

To  a  garden  long  deserted. 

The  beds  and  walks  were  vanished  quite; 
And  wheresoe'er  had  struck  the  spade, 


The  greenest  grasses  Nature  laid 
To  sanctify  her  right. 

Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me  ! 
I  crept  beneath  the  boughs  and  found 
A  circle  smooth  of  mossy  ground 
Beneath  a  poplar-tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in, 
Bedropt  with  roses  white, 
Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light, 
And  careless  to  be  seen. 

•  •  •  ■  • 

To  me  upon  my  mossy  seat, 
Though  never  a  dream  the  roses  sent 
Of  science  or  love's  compliment, 
1  ween  they  smelt  as  sweet. 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  the  rose-tree  wall, 
A  thrush  made  gladness  musical 
Upon  the  other  side. 

Nor  he  nor  I  did  e'er  incline 
To  peck  or  pluck  the  blossoms  white. 
How  should  I  know  but  roses  might 
Lead  lives  as  glad  as  mine  ? 

My  childhood  from  my  life  is  parted, 
My  footstep  from  the  moss  which  drew 
Its  fairy  circle  round  :  anew 
The  garden  is  deserted. 

Another  thrush  may  there  rehearse 
The  madrigals  which  sweetest  are  ; 
No  more  for  me  !  —  myself  afar 
Do  sing  a  sadder  verse. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


THE  OLD   OAKEN   BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood, 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild- 
wood, 
And  every  loved  spol  which  my  infancy  knew ;  — 
Thewide-spreadingpond,  and  the  mill  whidi  stood 
by  it, 


9- 


-C3 


a 


28 


POEMS   OF   CHILDHOOD. 


a 


The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hungin  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure  ; 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glow- 
ing ! 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips  ! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to 
leave  it, 

Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 

SAMUEL  WOODWORTH. 


'  THE   OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 

I  love  it,  I  love  it !  and  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair  ? 

I  've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize, 

I  've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  I  've  embalmed  it  with 

sighs. 
'T  is  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart ; 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start ; 
Would  you  know  the  spell  ? —  a  mother  sat  there  ! 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 
The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear  ; 
And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give 
To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 
She  told  me  that  shame  would  never  betide 
With  Truth  for  my  creed,  and  God  for  my  guide ; 
She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer, 
As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat,  and  watched  her  many  a  day, 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were  gray ; 


And  I  almost  worshipped  her  when  she  smiled, 
And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 
Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped,  — 
My  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-star  fled  ! 
I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  her  old  arm-chair. 

'T  is  past,  't  is  past  !  but  I  gaze  on  it  now, 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow  : 
'T  was  there  she  nursed  me,  't  was  there  she  died, 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 
Whilst  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek  ; 
But  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 

Eliza  Cook. 


WOODMAN,    SPARE   THAT  TREE. 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  I 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I  '11  protect  it  now. 
'T  was  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not  ! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke  ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties  ; 
0,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies  ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade  ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here  ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand  — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand  ! 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 
Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  ! 

Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 
And  still  thy  branches  bend, 

Old  tree  !  the  storm  still  brave  ! 
And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot ; 

While  I  've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  hurt  it  not. 

George  P.  Morris. 


C& 


S 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


FRIENDSHIP 


"ft 


BENEDICITE. 

God's  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where 
Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair  ! 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 

Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 

The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread, 

The  maple  shadows  overhead,  — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine,  — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 

Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray, 
Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way, 
And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to-day  : 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene, 
The  weary  waste  whieh  lies  between 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not  Friendship's  spellword,  nor 
The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 

All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 

With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  east 

Thy  lot,  and  many  a  (harm  thou  ha-l 

To  hold  the  Messed  angels  fast. 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wish  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from  me, 

What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  he? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed,  — 

What  can  1  nunc  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need  I 


God's  love,  —  unchanging,  pure,  and  true,  — 
The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace,  —  the  fall  of  Hermon's  dew  ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 

I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE   POET'S   FRIEND. 

LORD    BOLINGBROKE. 

Come  then,  my  friend !  my  genius !  come  along ; 
0  master  of  the  poet,  and  the  song  ! 
And  while  the  muse  now  stoops,  or  now  ascends, 
To  man's  low  passions,  or  their  glorious  ends, 
Teach  me,  like  thee,  in  various  nature  wise, 
To  fall  with  dignity,  with  temper  rise  ; 
Formed  by  thy  converse  happily  to  steer 
From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe  ; 
Correct  with  spirit,  eloquent  with  ease, 
Intent  to  reason,  or  polite  to  please. 
0,  while  along  the  stream  of  time  thy  name 
Expanded  Hies,  and  gathers  all  its  fame  ; 
Say,  shall  my  little  bark  attendant  sail. 
Pursue  the  triumph,  and  partake  the  gale  ? 
When  statesmen,  hemes,  kings,  in  dust  repose, 
Whose  sons  shall  blush  their  fathers  were  thy  foes, 
Shall  then  this  verse  to  future  age  pretend 
Thou  wert  my  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  ! 

That,   urged  by  thee,    1   turned  the  tuneful  art 

From  sounds  to  things,  from  fancy  to  the  heart : 
For  wit's  false  minor  held  up  Nature's  light  ; 
Showed  erring  pride,  whatever  ts,  is  right; 

That   REASON,   PASSION,  answer  one  greal  aim; 
That   true  SELF-LOVE  and  S0C1  \l.  are  the  same  ; 
That   VIRTUE  only  makes  our  bliss  below  ; 
A.nd  all  OUT  knowledge  is,  OURSELVES  TO  KNOW. 

A  l  l   XANDER    Pi  IPE. 

A  GENEROUS  friendship  no  cold  medium  knows, 
Burns  with  one  love,  with  one  resentmenl  glows. 

Pi  ipe'S  I  LI  ui. 


w 


a- 


32 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


PARTED   FRIENDS. 

1  l 

Friend  after  friend  departs  : 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end  ; 
Were  this  frail  world  our  only  rest, 
Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  time, 

Beyond  this  vale  of  death, 
There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath, 
Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 
Whose  sparks  fly  upward  to  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above, 

Where  parting  is  unknown  ; 
A  whole  eternity  of  love, 

Formed  for  the  good  alone  ; 
And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 
Translated  to  that  happier  sphere. 

Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  passed  away, 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines, 

To  pure  and  perfect  day  ; 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night ; 
They  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light. 

James  Montgomery. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

[Died  in  New  York,  September,  1820.] 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee', 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth  ; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  ami  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine,  — 

It  should  In-  mine  to  braid  it 
Around  thy  faded  brow, 


But  I  've  in  vain  essayed  it, 
And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

FlTZ-GREENE  Halleck. 


EARLY   FRIENDSHIP. 

The  half-seen  memories  of  childish  days, 
When  pains  and  pleasures  lightly  came  and  went ; 
The  sympathies  of  boyhood  rashly  spent 
In  fearful  wand'rings  through  forbidden  ways  ; 
The  vague,  but  manly  wish  to  tread  the  maze 
Of  life  to  noble  ends,  —  whereon  intent, 
Asking  to  know  for  what  man  here  is  sent, 
The  bravest  heart  must  often  pause,  and  gaze,  — 
The  firm  resolve  to  seek  the  chosen  end 
Of  manhood's  judgment,  cautious  and  mature,  — 
Each  of  these  viewless  bonds  binds  friend  to  friend 
With  strength  no  selfish  purpose  can  secure  : 
My  happy  lot  is  this,  that  all  attend 
That  friendship  which  first  came,  and  which  shall 
last  endure. 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

Ham.  Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 
As  e'er  my  conversation  coped  withal. 

Hor.  0  my  dear  lord  — 

Ham.  Nay,  do  not  think  I  flatter  : 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee 

That  no  revenue  hast  but  thy  good  spirits, 

To  feed  and  clothe  thee  ?  Why  should  the  poor 

be  flattered  ? 

No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp, 

And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee, 

Where  thrift  may  follow   fawning.     Dost  thou 

hear  ? 

Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  her  choice, 

And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election 

Hath  sealed  thee  for  herself  ;  for  thou  hast  been 

As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing,  — 

A  man  that  Fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 

Hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks  ;  and  blessed  are 

those 

Whose  blood  and  judgmentareso  well  co-mingled, 

That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  Fortune's  finger 

To  sound  what  stop  she  please  :  Give  me  that 

man 

That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 

In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 

As  I  do  thee. 

Shakespeare. 


t& 


FRIENDSHIP. 


-a 


33 


OLD   MATTHEW 

A   CONVERSATION. 

"We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 

Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 

And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 

Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

"  Now,  Matthew  !  "  said  I,  "let  us  match 

This  water's  pleasant  tune 
"With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch 

That  suits  a  summer's  noon. 

"  Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade 

That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made  !  " 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 

And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
The  gray-haired  man  of  glee  :  — 

"No  check,  no  stay,  this  Streamlet  fears, 

How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'T  will  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 

And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

"  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred, 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

"  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  : 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  Age  takes  away 

Than  wliat  it  leaves  behind. 

"The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 

The  lark  above  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

"With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 

A  foolish  strife  ;  they  Bee 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 

Is  beautiful  and  free  ; 


"  But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws  ; 

And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"  If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own,  — 

It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 

My  life  has  been  approved, 
And  many  love  me  ;  but  by  none 

Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  ! 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains  : 

"And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 

I  '11  be  a  son  to  thee  !  " 
At  this  he  grasped  my  hand  and  said, 

"Alas  !  that  cannot  be." 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side  ; 

And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide  ; 

And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  Rock 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 

About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 
And  the  bewildered  chimes. 

W.   WORDSWORTH. 


MARTIAL   FRIENDSHIP. 


CORIOLANUS. 


[Aufidius  the  Volscian  to  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus.] 

Auf.  0  Marcius,  Marcius  ! 

Each  word  thou  hast  spoke  hath  weeded  from  my 

heart 
A  root  of  ancient  envy.     If  Jupiter 
Should  from  yond'  cloud  speak  divine  things,  and 

say, 
"  'T  is  true,"  I  M  not  believethem  more  than  tine. 
All-noble  Marcius.  — Let  me  twine 
Aline  arms  about  that  body,  where-against 
My  grained  ash  an  hundred  times  hath  broke, 
And  scared  the  moon  with  splinters  !  Here  I  clip 
The  anvil  of  my  sword  ;  and  do  contest 
As  hotly  and  as  nobly  with  thy  love, 
As  ever  in  ambitious  strength  I  did 
('(intend  against  thy  valor.      Know  thou  first, 
[  loved  the  maid  1  married  ;   never  man 
Sighed  truer  breath  ;  but  that  I  see  thee  here, 


-T? 


a- 


3i 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


Thou  noble  thing  !   more  dances  my  rapt  heart 
Than  when  I  first  my  wedded  unstress  saw 
Bestride  my  threshold.    Why,  thou  Mars  !  I  tell 

thee, 
We  have  a  power  on  foot ;  and  I  had  purpose 
Once  more  to  hew  thy  target  from  thy  brawn, 
Or  lose  mine  arm  for  't.     Thou  hast  beat  me  out 
Twelve  several  times,  and  I  have  nightly  since 
Dreamt  of  encounters  'twixt  thyself  and  me, 
We  have  been  down  together  in  my  sleep, 
Unbuckling  helms,  fisting  each  other's  throat, 
And  waked  half  dead  with  nothing.     Worthy 

Marcius, 
Had  we  no  other  quarrel  else  to  Pome,  but  that 
Thou  art  thence  banished,  we  would  muster  all 
From  twelve  to  seventy  ;  and,  pouring  war 
Into  the  bowels  of  ungrateful  Rome, 
Like  a  bold  flood  o'erbear.     0,  come  !  go  in, 
And  take  our  friendly  senators  by  th'  hands  ; 
Who  now  are  here,  taking  then-  leaves  of  me, 
Who  am  prepared  against  your  territories, 
Though  not  for  Pome  itself. 

A  thousand  welcomes  ! 
And  more  a  friend  than  e'er  an  enemy  ; 

Yet,  Marcius,  that  was  much. 

Shakespeare. 


WHEN   TO    THE    SESSIONS    OF    SWEET 
SILENT   THOUGHT. 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste. 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancelled  woe, 

And  moan  th'  expense  of  many  a  vanished  sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 

Which  I  new  pay,  as  if  not  paid  before  ; 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 

All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

Shakespeare. 


FRIENDS   FAR  AWAY. 

( lOTJNT  not  the  hours  while  their  silent  wings 

Thus  waft  them  in  fairy  flight ; 
For  feeling,  warm  from  her  dearest  springs, 

Shall  hallow  the  scene  to-night. 
And  while  the  music  of  joy  is  here, 

And  the  colors  of  life  are  gay, 
Let  us  think  on  those  that  have  loved  us  dear, 

The  Friends  who  arc  far  away. 


Few  are  the  hearts  that  have  proved  the  truth 

Of  their  early  affection's  vow  ; 
And  let  those  few,  the  beloved  of  youth, 

Be  dear  in  their  absence  now. 
0,  vividly  in  their  faithful  breast 

Shall  the  gleam  of  remembrance  play, 
Like  the  lingering  light  of  the  crimson  west, 

When  the  sunbeam  hath  passed  away  ! 

Soft  be  the  sleep  of  their  pleasant  hours, 
And  calm  be  the  seas  they  roam  ! 

May  the  way  they  travel  be  strewed  with  flower, 
Till  it  bring  them  in  safety  home  ! 

And  when  we  whose  hearts  are  o'erflowing  thus 
Ourselves  may  be  doomed  to  stray, 

May  some  kind  orison  rise  for  us, 

When  we  shall  be  far  away  ! 

Horace  Twiss. 


THE  MEETING.  OF   THE   SHIPS. 

"  WTe  take  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  we  exchange  a  few 
words  and  looks  of  kindness,  and  we  rejoice  together  for  a  few 
short  moments  ;  and  then  days,  months,  years  intervene,  and  ws 
see  and  know  nothing  of  each  other."  —  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

Two  baiks  met  on  the  deep  mid-sea, 
When  calms  had  stilled  the  tide  ; 

A  few  bright  days  of  summer  glee 
There  found. them  side  by  side. 

And  voices  of  the  fair  and  brave 
Rose  mingling  thence  in  mirth  ; 

And  sweetly  floated  o'er  the  wave 
The  melodies  of  earth. 

Moonlight  on  that  lone  Indian  main 

Cloudless  and  lovely  slept ; 
While  dancing  step  and  festive  strain 

Each  deck  in  triumph  swept. 

And  hands  were  linked,  and  answering  eyes 

With  kindly  meaning  shone  ; 
0,  brief  and  passing  sympathies, 

Like  leaves  together  blown  ! 

A  little  while  such  joy  was  cast 

Over  the  deep's  repose, 
Till  the  loud  singing  winds  at  last 

Like  trumpet  music  rose. 

And  proudly,  freely  on  their  way 

The  parting  vessels  bore  ; 
In  calm  or  storm,  by  rock  or  bay, 

To  meet  — 0,  nevermore  ! 

Never  to  blend  in  victory's  cheer, 

To  aid  in  hours  of  woe  ; 

And  thus  bright  spirits  mingle  here, 

Such  ties  are  formed  below. 

Felicia  Hemans. 


■i± 


•^ 


FRIENDSHIP. 


35 


•a 


THE   QUARREL   OF   FRIENDS. 

FROM    "CHRISTABEL." 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  : 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 

And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline  ! 
Each  spoke  words  of  high  disdain 

And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother  ; 
They  parted,  —  ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 

But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining. 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder  ; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between, 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


THE   QUARREL    OF    BRUTUS   AND 
CASSIUS. 

FROM    "JULIUS   CJESAR." 

Cas.  That  you  have  wronged  me  doth  appear 
in  this  : 
You  have  condemned  and  noted  Lucius  Pella, 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians  ; 
Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 
Bnu.  You  wronged  yourself  to  write  in  such  a 

case. 
Cas.   In  such  a  time  as  this,  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offence  should  bear  his  comment. 

Beit.  Let  me  tell  you,  Cassias,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemned  to  have  an  itching  palm, 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold, 
To  undeservcrs. 

I  I  an  itching  palm  ? 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 
I '.  i :  i ' .  The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  corrup- 
tion, 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 
Cas.  ( lhastisemeni  ! 

Bru.  Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  re- 
member ' 
Did  not  greal  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake? 
What  villain  touched  his  body,  thai  did  stab, 
And  mil  for  justice?     Wha1  !  shall  one  of  us, 
Thai  struck  the  foremosl  man  of  all  this  world, 
But  for  supporting  robbers,      shall  we  now 


Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes, 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me, 

I  '11  not  endure  it  :  you  forget  yourself, 
To  hedge  me  in  ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to  ;  you  are  not,  Cassiu: 

Cas.  I  am. 

Bru.   I  say  you  are  not. 

Cas.   Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myseli ; 
Have  mind  upon  your  health ;  tempt  me  no  further. 
Bru.  Away,  slight  man  ! 
Cas.  Is 't  possible  ( 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler  ? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares  ? 
Cas.   0  ye  gods  !  ye  gods  !  Must  I  endure  all 

this  ? 
•Bru.  All  this  ?  ay,  more  :  Fret,  till  your  proud 
heart  break  ; 
Go,  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
Andmakeyour  bondmen  tremble.    Must  I  budge  ? 
Must  I  observe  you  1     Must  I  stand  ami  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor  ?     By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Though  it  do  split  you  ;  for  from  this  day  forth 
I  '11  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Bru.  You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier  : 
Let  it  appear  so  ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well  :  For  mine  own  pai't, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 
Cas.  You  wrong  me,  every  way  you  wrong  me, 
Brutus  ; 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better  ; 
Did  I  say,  better  ? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cas.  When  Caesar  lived,  he  durst   not  thus 

have  moved  me. 
Bru.    Peace,    peace  !    you  durst    not    so   have 

tempted  him. 
CAS.  I  durst  not? 
BRU.   No. 

Cas.    What!  durst  not  tempt  him  ? 
Bru.  For  your  life  yon  dursl  not. 

I '  \s.  Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love  ; 

I   iiii\   do  thai    I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Km  .   5fou  have  done  thai  yon  should  be  sorry 
for. 

There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats  : 
For  1  am  armed  so  strong  in  honesty, 
That  !  hey  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind. 
Which  1  respect  not.     I  did  semi  to  you 


~W 


a- 


36 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me ;  — 

For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means  : 

By  Heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 

And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 

From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash, 

By  any  indirection.      I  did  send 

To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions, 

"Which  you  denied  me  :  Was  that  done  like  Cassius? 

Should  I  have  answered  Caius  Cassius  so  ? 

When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 

To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 

Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts, 

Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 

Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not  :  —  he  was  but  a  fool 

That  brought  my  answer  back.  —  Brutus  hath 

rived  my  heart : 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities, 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Bru.   I  do  not,  till  you  practise  them  on  me. 

Cas.  You  love  me  not. 

Brtj.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.  A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Brtt.  A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do 
appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cas.   Come,    Antony,    and  young    Octavius, 
come, 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  a-weary  of  the  world  : 
Hated  by  one  he  loves  ;  braved  by  his  brother  ; 
Checked  like  a  bondman  ;  all  his  faults  observed, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learned  and  conned  by  rote, 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     0,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes  !  —  There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold  : 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth  ; 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart. 
Strike  as  thou  didst  at  Csesar  ;  for  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst 

him  better 
Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius. 

Brit.  Sheath  your  dagger  : 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope  ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
0  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger,  as  the  flint  bears  fire  ; 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark, 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  lived 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief,  and  blood  ill-tempered,  vexeth  him  ? 
BRTJ.  When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-tempered  too. 

Cas.  Do  you  confess  so  much  ?     Give  me  your 

hand. 
Bru.  And  my  heart  too. 


Cas.  0  Brutus  !  — 

Bru.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Cas.  Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear  with 
me, 
When  that  rash  humor  which  my  mother  gave  me 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Bru.  Yes,  Cassius  ;  and  from  henceforth, 

When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He  '11  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 

Bru.  0    Cassius  !  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 
Cas.  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better  :  —  Portia  is 

dead. 
Cas.  Ha  !  Portia  ? 
Bru.  She  is  dead. 
Cas.  How  'scaped  I  killing,  when  I  crossed  you 

so?  — 

0  insupportable  and  touching  loss  !  — 
Upon  what  sickness  ? 

Bru.  Impatient  of  my  absence, 

And  grief  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Have  made  themselves  so  strong  ;  —  for  with  her 

death 
That  tidings  came  ;  —  with  this  she  fell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallowed  fire. 

Cas.  And  died  so  ? 

Bru.  Even  so. 

Cas.  0  ye  immortal  gods  ! 

Enter  Lucius,  with  wine  and  tapers. 

Bru.  Speak  no  more  of  her.  —  Give  me  a  bowl 
of  wine  :  — ■ 
In  this  I  bury  all  unkindness,  Cassius.   (Drinks.) 
Cas.   My    heart    is    thirsty    for    that    noble 
pledge.  — 
Fill,  Lucius,  till  the  wine  o'erswell  the  cup  ; 

1  cannot  drink  too  much  of  Brutus'  love.   (Brinks.) 

Shakespeare. 


THE   ROYAL   GUEST. 

They  tell  me  I  am  shrewd  with  other  men  ; 

With  thee  I  'm  slow,  and  difficult  of  speech. 
With  others  I  may  guide  the  car  of  talk  : 

Thou  wing'st  it  oft  to  realms  beyond  my  reach. 

If  other  guests  should  come,  I  'd  deck  my  hair, 
And  choose  my  newest  garment  from  the  shelf ; 

When  thou  art  bidden,  I  would  clothe  my  heart 
With  holiest  purpose,  as  for  God  himself. 

For  them  I  while  the  hours  with  tale  or  song, 
Or  web  of  fancy,  fringed  with  careless  rhyme  ; 

But  how  to  find  a  fitting  lay  for  thee, 
Who  hast  the  harmonies  of  every  time  ? 


tQ- 


~o 


FRIENDSHIP. 


37 


a 


0  friend  beloved  !     I  sit  apart  and  dumb,  — ■ 
Sometimes  in  sorrow,  oft  in  joy  divine  ; 

My  lip  will  falter,  but  my  prisoned  heart 

Springs  forth  to  measure  its  faint  pulse  with 
thine. 

Thou  art  to  me  most  like  a  royal  guest, 

"Whose  travels  bring  him  to  some  lowly  roof, 

Where  simple  rustics  spread  their  festal  fare 
And,  blushing,  own  it  is  not  good  enough. 

Bethink  thee,  then,  whene'er  thou  com'st  to  me,  \ 

From  high  emprise  and  noble  toil  to  rest, 
My  thoughts  are  weak  and  trivial,  matched  with 
thine  ; 
But  the  poor  mansion  offers  thee  its  best. 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 


THE   DEAD   FRIEND. 

FROM    "  IN  MEMORIAM." 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well, 
Through  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow. 

But  where  the  path  we  walked  begaD 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 
As  we  descended  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  feared  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship, 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold, 
And  wrapped  thee  formless  in  the  fold, 

Ami  dulled  the  murmur  on  thy  lip. 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
Ami  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech  ; 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring. 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 

I  know  that  this  was  Life,  — the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  lured  ; 

Ami  then,  as  now.  the  day  prepared 
The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  thai  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 

1  loved  the  weighl    I   hail  to  bear 

Because  it  needed  help  of  Love  : 

Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 
When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in  twain 


The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 
And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

•  •  *  •  • 

But  I  remained,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 

Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little  worth 
To  wander  on  a  darkened  earth, 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 

0  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 
0  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0  solemn  ghost,  0  crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  though  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  I  met ; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

1  woo  your  love  :  I  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A  friendship  as  had  mastered  Time  ; 

Which  masters  Time,  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this. 

0  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  : 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundred-fold  accrue. 

The  hills  arc  shadows,  and  they  (low 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands ; 

They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 
Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true  J 
For  though  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 

1  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

ALFR1  D 


tf 


a- 


38 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTiOXS. 


a 


COMPLIMENT    AND    ADMIRATION 


TO   MISTRESS   MARGARET   HUSSEY. 

Merry  Margaret, 

As  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower  ; 

With  solace  and  gladness, 

Much  mirth  and  no  madness, 

All  good  and  no  badness  ; 

So  joj'ously, 

So  maidenly, 

So  womanly 

Her  demeaning,  — ■ 

In  everything 

Far,  far  passing 

That  I  can  indite, 

Or  suffice  to  write, 

Of  merry  Margaret, 

As  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower  ; 

As  patient  and  as  still, 

And  as  full  of  good-will, 

As  fair  Isiphil, 

Coliander, 

Sweet  Pomander, 

Good  Cassander  ; 

Steadfast  of  thought, 

"Well  made,  well  wrought ; 

Far  may  be  sought 

Ere  you  can  find 

So  courteous,  so  kind, 

As  merry  Margaret, 

This  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 

JOHN  SKELTON. 


WHY  SHOULD  THIS  DESERT  SILENT  BE? 

FROM    "  AS   YOU    LIKE    IT." 

Why  should  this  desert  silent  be  ? 

For  if  is  unpeopled  ?     No; 
Tongues  I  '11  hang  on  every  tree, 

That  shall  civil  sayings  show  : 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage; 
Thnt  the  stretching  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age: 
Some,  of  violated  vows 


'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend  : 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 

Or  at  every  sentence'  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write  ; 

Teaching  all  that  read  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  Heaven  nature  charged 

That  one  body  should  be  filled 
With  all  graces  wide  enlarged  : 

Nature  presently  distilled 
Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart, 

Cleopatra's  majesty, 
Atalanta's  better  part, 

Sad  Lucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devised  ; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  prized. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have, 

And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


PHILLIS   THE   FAIR. 

On  a  hill  there  grows  a  flower, 
Fair  befall  the  dainty  sweet ! 

By  that  flower  there  is  a  bower 
Where  the  heavenly  muses  meet. 

In  that  bower  there  is  a  chair, 
Fringed  all  about  with  gold, 

Where  doth  sit  the  fairest  fail- 
That  ever  eye  did  yet  behold. 

It  is  Phillis,  fair  and  bright, 
She  that  is  the  shepherd's  joy, 

She  that  Venus  did  despite, 
And  did  blind  her  little  boy. 

Who  would  not  that  face  admire  ? 

Who  would  not  this  saint  adore  ? 
Who  would  not  this  sight  desire  ? 

Though  he  thought  to  see  no  more. 

Thou  that  art  the  shepherd's  queen, 

Look  upon  thy  love-sick  swain  ; 

By  thy  comfort  have  been  seen 

Dead  men  brought  to  life  again. 

Nicholas  Breton- 


izr 


COMPLIMENT   AND   ADMIRATION. 


-a 


39 


A   HEALTH. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words  ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours  ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers  ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  — 

The  idol  of  past  years  ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
"When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

"Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon. 
Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 

Edward  Coate  Pinckney. 


THERE  IS    A    GARDEN    IN    HER    FACE. 

FROM  "AN  HOURE'S  RECREATION  IN  MUSICKE."    1606. 

Tiikue  is  a  garden  in  her  face, 
Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow  ; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  pi: 

Wherein  all  pleasanl  fruits  do  grow  ; 

There  cherries  grow  thai  none  may  buy, 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  ciy. 


Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
"Which  when  her  lovelj'  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rosebuds  filled  with  snow  ; 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still, 
Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 

Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 

These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

RICHARD  ALLISON. 


THE   WHITE   ROSE. 

SENT    BY    A  YORKISH    LOVER    TO    HIS    LANCASTRIAN 
MISTRESS. 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight, 

Placed  in  thy  bosom  bare, 
'T  will  blush  to  find  itself  less  white, 

And  turn  Lancastrian  there. 

But  if  thy  ruby  lip  it  spy, 
As  kiss  it  thou  mayest  deign, 

With  envy  pale  't  will  lose  its  dye, 
And  Yorkish  turn  again. 

ANONYMOUS. 


OLIVIA. 


FROM    "TWELFTH    NIGHT. 


Viola.     'T  is  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and 

white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on  : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruel' st  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


ROSAL1 N  E. 

Like  to  the  clear  in  bighesl  sphere 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines  ; 
<  If  selfsame  color  is  her  hair 
Whether  unfolded,  or  in  twines  : 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Resembling  heaven  by  every  wink  ; 
The  gods  '1"  fear  whenas  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think 

Heigh-ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 
That  beautifies  Aurora's  fare, 


# 


40 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud 

That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace  : 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses 
"Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbor  nigh, 
"Within  which  bounds  she  balm  encloses 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity  : 

Heigh-ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

Her  neck  is  like  a  stately  tower 
Where  Love  himself  imprisoned  lies, 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes  ; 

Heigh-ho,  for  Rosaline  ! 
Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight, 
Her  breasts  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Where  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light 
To  feed  perfection  with  the  same  : 

Heigh-ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red, 
"With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue, 
Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 
Yet  soft  in  touch  and  sweet  in  view  : 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Nature  herself  her  shape  admires  ; 
The  gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight  ; 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light : 

Heigh-ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

Then  muse  not,  Nymphs,  though  I  bemoan 
The  absence  of  fair  Rosaline, 
Since  for  a  fair  there 's  fairer  none, 
Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine  : 

Heigh-ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Heigh-ho,  my  heart!  would  God  that  she  were 
mine  ! 

T.  LODGE. 


A   VIOLET   IN   HER   HAIR. 

A  violet  in  her  lovely  hair, 
A  rose  upon  her  bosom  fair  ! 

But  0,  her  eyes 
A  lovelier  violet  disclose, 
And  her  ripe  lips  the  sweetest  rose 
That 's  'neath  the  skies. 

A  lute  beneath  her  graceful  hand 
Breathes  music  forth  at  her  command 

But  still  her  tongue 
Far  richer  music  calls  to  birth 
Than  all  the  minstrel  power  on  earth 

Can  give  to  song. 


And  thus  she  moves  in  tender  light, 
The  purest  ray,  where  all  is  bright, 

Serene,  and  sweet ; 
And  sheds  a  graceful  influence  round, 
That  hallows  e'en  the  very  ground 

Beneath  her  feet ! 

Charles  Swain. 


WELCOME,  WELCOME,  DO   I   SING. 

Welcome,  welcome,  do  I  sing, 
Far  more  welcome  than  the  spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never 
Shall  enjoy  a  spring  forever. 

Love  that  to  the  voice  is  near, 
Breaking  from  your  ivory  pale, 

Need  not  walk  abroad  to  hear 
The  delightful  nightingale. 

Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing,  etc. 

Love,  that  still  looks  on  your  eyes, 
Though  the  winter  have  begun 

To  benumb  our  arteries, 

Shall  not  want  the  summer's  sun. 
Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing,  etc. 

Love,  that  still  may  see  your  cheeks, 
Where  all  rareness  still  reposes, 

Is  a  fool  if  e'er  he  seeks 
Other  lilies,  other  roses. 

Welcome,  welcome,  then  I  sing,  etc. 

Love,  to  whom  your  soft  lip  yields, 

And  perceives  your  breath  in  kissing, 

All  the  odors  of  the  fields 

Never,  never  shall  be  missing. 

William  Browne. 


PORTIA'S   PICTURE. 

FROM  "  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE." 

Faih  Portia's  counterfeit  ?     What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?     Move  these  eyes  ? 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?     Here  are  severed  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  ;  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends  :    Here  in  her 

hairs 
The  painter  plays  the  spider  ;  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men, 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs  :  But  her  eyes,  — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?  having  made  one, 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 
And  leave  itself  unfurnished. 


Shakespeare. 


<&- 


.  jj 


COMPLIMENT   AND   ADMIRATION. 


■ft 


41 


WHENAS   IN  SILKS    MY   JULIA   GOES. 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 

Then,  then  (methinks)  how  sweetly  flows 

That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free  ; 
0,  how  that  glittering  taketh  me  ! 

R.  HERRICK. 


I  DO  NOT  LOVE  THEE  FOR  THAT  FAIR. 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  that  fair 
Rich  fan  of  thy  most  curious  hair, 
Though  the  wires  thereof  be  drawn 
Finer  than  the  threads  of  lawn, 
And  are  softer  than  the  leaves 
On  which  the  subtle  spider  weaves. 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  those  flowers 
Growing  on  thy  cheeks,  — love's  bowers,  — 
Though  such  cunning  them  hath  spread, 
None  can  paint  them  white  and  red. 
Love's  golden  arrows  thence  are  shot, 
Yet  for  them  I  love  thee  not. 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  those  soft 
Red  coral  lips  I  've  kissed  so  oft  ; 
Nor  teeth  of  pearl,  the  double  guard 
To  speech  whence  music  still  is  heard, 
Though  from  those  lips  a  kiss  being  taken 
Might  tyrants  melt,  and  death  awaken. 

I  do  not  love  thee,  0  my  fairest, 
For  that  richest,  for  that  rarest 
Silver  pillar,  which  stands  under 
Thy  sound  head,  that  globe  of  wonder  ; 
Though  that  neck  be  whiter  far 
Than  towers  of  polished  ivory  are. 

THOMAS  Carew. 


THE    FORWARD    VTOLET    THUS    DID    I 
CHIDE. 


Tiif.  forward  violel  thus  did  I  chide  :  — 

Sweet   thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy  Bweel 

thai  smell  ., 
If  not  from  my  love's  lnvath  >.  the  purple  pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells, 
In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dyed. 

The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand. 

And  buds  of  marjoram  had  Btol'n  thy  hair  : 

The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 

''h    blushing  shame,  another  white  despair  ; 


A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stol'n  of  both, 
And  to  this  robbery  had  annexed  thy  breath  ; 
But,  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  lnm  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see, 
But  sweet  or  color  it  had  stolen  from  thee. 

Shakespeare. 


GIVE   PLACE,    YE   LOVERS. 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 

That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags  in  vain 

My  lady's  beauty  passeth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayen, 

Than  doth  the  sun  the  candledight, 

Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  troth  as  just 

As  had  Penelope  the  fair  ; 
For  what  she  saith,  ye  may  it  trust, 

As  it  by  writing  sealed  were  : 
And  virtues  hath  she  many  mo' 
Than  I  with  pen  have  skill  to  show. 

I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would, 
The  whole  effect  of  Nature's  plaint, 

When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mould, 
The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint  : 

With  wringing  hands,  how  she  did  cry, 

And  what  she  said,  I  know  it  aye. 

I  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind, 

Her  kingdom  only  set  apart, 
There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 

That  could  have  gone  so  near  her  heart ; 
And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain  ; 
"She  could  not  make  the  like  again." 

Sith  Nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise, 
To  be  the  chiefest  work  she  wrought, 

In  faith,  methink,  some  better  ways 
On  your  behalf  might  well  be  sought, 

Than  to  compare,  as  ye  have  done, 

To  match  the  candle  with  the  sun. 

Lord  Surrey. 


YOU   MEANER   BEAUTIES. 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light,  — 

You  common  people  of  the  skies. 

What  are  you  when  the  moon  shall  rise? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  w 1, 

That  warble  forth  Dame  Nature's  lays, 

Thinking  your  passions  understood 

By  your  weak  accents,  —  what  's  your  praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise  ? 


# 


a- 


±2 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■^Eb 


You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known, 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own,  — 
"What  are  you  when  the  rose  is  blown  ? 

So  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind  : 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  queen,  — 

Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  designed 

Th'  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


A  VISION   OF   BEAUTY. 

It  was  a  beauty  that  I  saw,  — 
So  pure,  so  perfect,  as  the  frame 
Of  all  the  universe  were  lame 

To  that  one  figure,  could  I  draw, 

Or  give  least  line  of  it  a  law  : 
A  skein  of  silk  without  a  knot  ! 

A  fair  march  made  without  a  halt ! 

A  curious  form  without  a  fault  ! 

A  printed  book  without  a  blot  ! 

All  beauty  !  —  and  without  a  spot. 

Ben  Jonson. 


WHEN  IN  THE  CHRONICLE  OF  WASTED 
TIME. 

SONNET. 

When"  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme, 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights  ; 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  expressed 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring  ; 
And,  for  they  looked  but  with  divining  eyes, 
Tiny  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing  ; 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

Shakespeare. 


CHILD   AND   MAIDEN. 

Ah,  Chloris  !  could  I  now  but  sit 
As  unconcerned  as  when 

Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 
No  happiness  or  pain  ! 

When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire, 
And  praised  the  coming  day, 


I  little  thought  the  rising  fire 
Would  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay 

Like  metals  in  a  mine  ; 
Age  from  no  face  takes  more  away 

Than  youth  concealed  in  thine. 
But  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  their  perfection  prest, 
So  love  as  unperceived  did  fly, 

And  centred  in  my  breast. 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 

While  Cupid  at  my  heart 
Still  as  his  mother  favored  you 

Threw  a  new  flaming  dart  : 
Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part ; 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employed  the  utmost  of  his  art ; 

To  2nake  a  beauty,  she. 

Sir  Charles  Sedley. 


WAITING   FOR  THE   GRAPES. 

That  I  love  thee,  charming  maid,  I  a  thousand 

times  have  said, 

And  a  thousand  times  more  I  have  sworn  it, 

But  't  is  easy  to  be  seen  in  the  coldness  of  your 

mien 

That  you  doubt  my  affection  —  or  scorn  it. 

Ah  me  ! 

Not  a  single  grain  of  sense  is  in  the  whole  of 
these  pretences 
For  rejecting  your  lover's  petitions  ; 
Had  I  windows  in  my  bosom,  0  how  gladly  I  'd 
expose  'em  ! 
To  undo  your  fantastic  suspicions. 

Ah  me  ! 

You  repeat  I  -ve  known  you  long,  and  you  hint 
I  do  you  wrong, 
In  beginning  so  late  to  pursue  ye  ; 
But 't  is  folly  to  look  glum  because  people  did  not 
come 
Up  the  stairs  of  your  nursery  to  woo  ye. 

Ah  me  ! 

In.  a  grapery  one  walks  without  looking  at  the 
stalks, 
While  the  bunches  are  green  that  they  're  bear- 
ing : 
All  the  pretty  little  leaves  that  are  dangling  at  the 
eaves 
Scarce  attract  e'en  a  moment  of  staring. 

Ah  me  ! 


& 


COMPLIMENT   AND   ADMIRATION. 


43 


But  when  time  has  swelled  the  grapes  to  a  richer 
style  of  shapes, 
And  the  sun  has  lent  warmth  to  their  blushes, 
Then  to  cheer  us  and  to  gladden,  to  enchant  us 
and  to  madden, 
Is  the  ripe  ruddy  glory  that  rushes. 

Ah  me  ! 

0,  't  is  then  that  mortals  pant  while  they  gaze  on 
Bacchus'  plant,  — 
0,  't  is  then,  —  will  my  simile  serve  ye  ? 
Should  a  damsel  fair  repine,  though  neglected  like 
a  vine  ? 
Both  erelong  shall  turn  heads  topsy-turvy. 

Ah  me  ! 

William  Maginn. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF   DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
"When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight  ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet  ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  : 
The  reason  linn,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

W.  WORDSWORTH. 


BELINDA. 

FROM    THE    "  RAPE   OF   THE    LOCK." 

On  her  white  breasl  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  mighl  kiss,  and  Infidels  adore, 


Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those  : 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends  : 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet,  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults,   if  belles  had  faults  to 

hide  ; 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you  '11  forget  them  all. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


IF  IT  BE  TRUE  THAT  ANY  BEAUTEOUS 
THING. 

If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing 
Raises  the  pure  and  just  desire  of  man 
From  earth  to  God,  the  eternal  fount  of  all, 
Such  I  believe  my  love  ;  for  as  in  her 
So  fail-,  in  whom  I  all  besides  forget, 
I  view  the  gentle  work  of  her  Creator, 
I  have  no  care  for  any  other  thing, 
Whilst  thus  I  love.     Nor  is  it  marvellous, 
Since  the  effect  is  not  of  my  own  power, 
If  the  soul  doth,  by  nature  tempted  forth, 
Enamored  through  the  eyes, 
Repose  upon  the  eyes  which  it  resembleth, 
And  through  them  riseth  to  the  Primal  Love, 
As  to  its  end,  and  honors  in  admiring ; 
For  who  adores  the  Maker  needs  must  love  his 
work. 

MICHAEL  AN'GELO  (Italian).     Translation 
Of  J.   E.   TAVLOR. 


THE  MIGHT  OF  ONE  FAIR  FACE. 

THE  might  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love, 
For  it  hath  weaned  my  heart  from  low  desires  ; 
Nor  death  I  heed,  nor  purgatorial  fixes. 
Thy  beauty,  antepast  of  joys  above. 
[nstructs  me  in  the  bliss  that  saints  approve  ; 
For  0,  how  good,  how  beautiful,  must  be 
The  Cud  that  made  so  good  a  thing  as  thee, 
So  fair  an  image  of  the  heavenly  Dove  ! 

Forgive  me  if  I  cannot  turn  away 

From    those    sweet     eyes    that    are    my    earthly 

heaven, 
For  they  are  guiding  stars,  benignly  given 
To  tempi  my  footsteps  to  the  upward  way  ; 
And  if  I  dwell  too  fondly  in  thy  sight, 
I  live  and  love  iii  ( tod's  peculiar  light. 

Mk  ham.    INGELO  (Italian).     Translation 
of  J.  !•:.  Tayi  i  IR. 


*B~ 


~ff 


a 


44 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


THE   MILKING-MAID. 

The  year  stood  at  its  equinox, 
And  bluff  the  North  was  blowing, 

A  bleat  of  lambs  came  from  the  flocks, 
Green  hard}-  things  were  growing  ; 

I  met  a  maid  with  shining  locks 
Where  milky  kine  were  lowing. 

She  wore  a  kerchief  on  her  neck, 
Her  bare  arm  showed  its  dimple, 

Her  apron  spread  without  a  speck, 
Her  air  was  frank  and  simple. 

She  milked  into  a  wooden  pail, 

And  sang  a  country  ditty,  — 
An  innocent  fond  lovers'  tale, 

That  was  not  wise  nor  witty, 
Pathetically  rustical, 

Too  pointless  for  the  city. 

She  kept  in  time  without  a  beat, 

As  true  as  church-bell  ringers, 
Unless  she  tapped  time  with  her  feet, 

Or  squeezed  it  with  her  fingers  ; 
Her  clear,  unstudied  notes  were  sweet 

As  many  a  practised  singer's. 

I  stood  a  minute  out  of  sight, 

Stood  silent  for  a  minute, 
To  eye  the  pail,  and  creamy  white 

The  frothing  milk  within  it,  — 

To  eye  the  comely  milking-maid, 

Herself  so  fresh  and  creamy. 
"Good  day  to  you  !  "  at  last  I  said  ; 

She  turned  her  head  to  see  me. 
"  Good  day  ! "  she  said,  with  lifted  head  ; 

Her  eyes  looked  soft  and  dreamy. 

And  all  the  while  she  milked  and  milked 

The  grave  cow  heavy-laden  : 
I  've  seen  grand  ladies,  plumed  and  silked, 

But  not  a  sweeter  maiden  ; 

But  not  a  sweeter,  fresher  maid 

Than  this  in  homely  cotton, 
"Whose  pleasant  face  and  silky  braid 

I  have  not  yet  forgotten. 

Seven  springs  have  passed  since  then,  as  I 

Count  with  a  sober  sorrow  ; 
Seven  springs  have  come  and  passed  me  by, 

And  spring  sets  in  to-morrow. 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  shake  myself 
Free,  just  for  once,  from  London, 

To  set  my  work  upon  the  shelf, 
And  leave  it  done  or  undone  ; 


To  run  down  by  the  early  train, 

Whirl  down  with  shriek  and  whistle, 

And  feel  the  bluff  north  blow  again, 
And  mark  the  sprouting  thistle 

Set  up  on  waste  patch  of  the  lane 
Its  green  and  tender  bristle  ; 

And  spy  the  scarce-blown  violet  banks, 
Crisp  primrose -leaves  and  others, 

And  watch  the  lambs  leap  at  their  pranks, 
And  butt  their  patient  mothers. 

Alas  !  one  point  in  all  my  plan 
My  serious  thoughts  demur  to  : 

Seven  years  have  passed  for  maid  and  man) 
Seven  years  have  passed  for  her  too. 

Perhaps  my  rose  is  over-blown, 

Not  rosy  or  too  rosy  ; 
Perhaps  in  farm-house  of  her  own 

Some  husband  keeps  her  cosey, 
Where  I  should  show  a  face  unknown,  — 

Good  by,  my  wayside  posy  ! 

CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI. 


SHE   WALKS    IN    BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies, 

And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes, 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent,  — 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

LORD  BYRON. 


CASTAEA. 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone 
Prospers  in  some  happy  shade, 

My  Castara  lives  unknown, 
To  no  ruder  eye  betrayed  ; 

For  she 's  to  herself  untrue 

Who  delights  i'  the  public  view. 


& 


■ff 


COMPLIMENT   AND   ADMIRATION. 


-a 


45 


Such  is  her  heauty  as  no  arts 

Have  enriched  with  borrowed  grace. 

Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts, 
For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 

Folly  boasts  a  glorious  blood,  — 

She  is  noblest  being  good. 

Cautious,  she  knew  never  yet 

What  a  wanton  courtship  meant ; 

Nor  speaks  loud  to  boast  her  wit, 
In  her  silence  eloquent. 

Of  herself  survey  she  takes, 

But  'tween  men  no  difference  makes. 

She  obeys  with  speedy  will 

Her  grave  parents'  wise  commands  ; 
And  so  innocent,  that  ill 

She  nor  acts,  nor  understands. 
Women's  feet  ran  still  astray 
If  to  ill  they  know  the  way. 

She  sails  by  that  rock,  the  court, 
Where  oft  virtue  splits  her  mast ; 

And  retiredness  thinks  the  port, 
Where  her  fame  may  anchor  cast. 

Virtue  safely  cannot  sit 

Where  vice  is  enthroned  for  wit. 

She  holds  that  day's  pleasure  best 
Where  sin  waits  not  on  delight ; 

Without  mask,  or  ball,  or  feast, 
Sweetly  spends  a  winter's  night. 

O'er  that  darkness  whence  is  thrust 

Prayer  and  sleep,  oft  governs  lust. 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climb, 
While  wild  passions  captive  lie  ; 

And  each  article  of  time, 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  heaven  fly  ; 

All  her  vows  religious  be, 

And  she  vows  her  love  to  me. 

William  Habington. 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION. 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ?    The  sparrow, 

the  dove, 
The  linnet,  and  thrush  say  "  I  love,  and  I  love !" 
In  the  winter  they're  silent,  the  wind  is  so  strong; 
What  it  says  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud 

song. 
But   green    leaves,    and    blossoms,    and   sunny 

warm  weather, 
A  ad  ringing  and  loving— all  come  back  together. 
But  the  lark  is  bo  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 
The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above, 
That  he  sings,  and  he  sings,  and  foreversings  he, 
"  I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me." 

S  \mi  i;l  Colkkidge. 


AT   THE   CHURCH   GATE. 

Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover  ; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming  ; 
They  've  hushed  the  minster  bell ; 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell ; 

She 's  coming,  coming  ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast ; 
She  comes,  —  she  's  here,  she 's  past  ! 

May  Heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint  ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly  ; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait, 
And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


VERSES   WRITTEN   IN   AN   ALBUM. 

Here  is  one  leaf  reserved  for  me, 
From  all  thy  sweet  memorials  free  ; 
And  here  my  simple  song  might  tell 
The  feelings  thou  must  guess  so  well. 
But  could  I  thus,  within  thy  mind, 
One  little  vacant  corner  find, 
Where  no  impression  yet  is  seen, 
Where  no  memorial  yet  has  been, 
0,  it  should  be  my  sweetest  care 
To  write  my  name  forever  there  ! 

T.  Moore. 


GO,    LOVELY   ROSE. 

On,  lovely  rose  ' 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows. 
When  1  resemble  her  to  thee. 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 


W 


ft 


46 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


Tell  her  that 's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired  ; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  ; 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 

That  are  so  wondrous,  sweet,  and  fair. 

Edmund  Waller. 


STANZA   ADDED    BY    HENRY    KIRKE   WHITE. 

Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise  ; 

And  teach  the  maid, 
That  goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies, 
That  virtue  lives  when  beauty  dies. 


FAIRER   THAN   THEE. 

Fairer  than  thee,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee  !  — 
There  is  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

Not  the  glad  sun,  beloved, 
Bright  though  it  beams  ; 

Not  the  green  earth,  beloved, 
Silver  with  streams  ; 

Not  the  gay  birds,  beloved, 

Happy  and  free  : 
Yet  there  's  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

Not  the  clear  day,  beloved, 

(J lowing  with  light  ; 
Not  (fairer  still,  beloved) 

Star-crowned  night. 

Truth  in  her  might,  beloved, 

Grand  in  her  sway  ; 
Truth  with  her  eyes,  beloved, 

Clearer  than  day. 

Holy  and  pure,  beloved, 

Spotless  and  free, 
Is  the  one  thing,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 


Guard  well  thy  soul,  beloved  ; 

Truth,  dwelling  there, 
Shall  shadow  forth,  beloved, 

Her  image  rare. 

Then  shall  I  deem,  beloved, 

That  thou  art  she  ; 
And  there  '11  be  naught,  beloved, 

Fairer  than  thee. 

ANONYMOUS. 


HER   LIKENESS. 

A  girl,  who  has  so  many  wilful  ways 

She  would  have  caused  Job's  patience  to  for- 
sake him  ; 
Yet  is  so  rich  in  all  that 's  girlhood's  praise, 
Did  Job  himself  upon  her  goodness  gaze, 
A  little  better  she  would  surely  make  him. 

Yet  is  this  girl  I  sing  in  naught  uncommon, 
And  very  far  from  angel  yet,  I  trow. 

Her  faults,  her  sweetnesses,  are  purely  human  ; 

Yet  she  's  more  lovable  as  simple  woman 
Than  any  one  diviner  that  I  know. 

Therefore  I  wish  that  she  may  safely  keep 

This  womanhede,  and  change  not,  only  grow  ; 

From  maid  to  matron,  youth  to  age,  may  creep, 

And  in  perennial  blessedness,  still  reap 

On  every  hand  of  that  which  she  doth  sow. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock. 


BLACK  AND   BLUE   EYES. 

The  brilliant  black  eye 

May  in  triumph  let  fly 
All  its  darts  without  caring  who  feels  'em  ; 

But  the  soft  eye  of  blue, 

Though  it  scatter  wounds  too, 
Is  much  better  pleased  when  it  heals  'em  ! 
Dear  Fanny  ! 

The  black  eye  may  say, 

"  Come  and  worship  my  ray  ; 
By  adoring,  perhaps  you  may  move  me  !  " 

But  the  blue  eye,  half  hid, 

Says,  from  under  its  lid, 
"  I  love,  and  am  yours,  if  you  love  me  !  " 
Dear  Fanny  ! 

Then  tell  me,  0  why, 

In  that  lovely  blue  eye, 
Not  a  charm  of  its  tint  I  discover  ; 

Or  why  should  you  wear 

The  only  blue  pair 

That  ever  said  "  No  "  to  a  lover  ? 

Dear  Fanny  ! 

Thomas  Moork 


ta- 


COMPLIMENT   AND   ADMIRATION. 


-*~Eb 


WHY,    LOVELY   CHARMER? 

FROM    "THE   HIVE." 

"Why,  lovely  charmer,  tell  me  why, 
So  very  kind,  and  yet  so  shy  ? 
"Why  does  that  cold,  forbidding  air 
Give  damps  of  sorrow  and  despair  ? 
Or  why  that  smile  my  soul  subdue, 
And  kindle  up  my  flames  anew  \ 

In  vain  you  strive  with  all  your  art, 
By  turns  to  fire  and  freeze  my  heart  ; 
When  I  behold  a  face  so  fair, 
So  sweet  a  look,  so  soft  an  air, 
My  ravished  soul  is  charmed  all  o'er, 
I  cannot  love  thee  less  or  more. 

Anonymous. 


i  PRITHEE  SEND  ME  BACK  MY  HEART. 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart, 

Since  I  cannot  have  thine  ; 
For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  part, 

Why  then  shouldst  thou  have  mine  ? 

Yet,  now  I  think  on 't,  let  it  lie  ; 

To  find  it  were  in  vain  ; 
For  thou  \st  a  thief  in  either  eye 

Would  steal  it  back  again. 

Why  should  two  hearts  in  one  breast  lie, 

And  yet  not  lodge  together  .' 
0  Love  !  where  is  thy  sympathy 

If  thus  our  breasts  thou  sever  ? 

But  love  is  such  a  mystery, 

I  cannot  lind  it  out  ; 
For  when  1  think  I  'm  best  resolved 

Then  I  am  most  in  doubt. 

Then  farewell  care,  and  farewell  woe ; 

I  will  no  longer  pine  ; 
For  I  '11  believe  I  have  her  heart 

As  much  as  she  lias  mine. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 


il'  DOUGHTY  DEEDS  MY  LADY  PLEASE. 

Ik  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please, 

Ri   lit  soon  I  '11  nioiini  my  steed, 
An  I  ixm  and  !;>-(  his  seat 

That  bears  Frae  me  I  he  meed. 
I  II  wear  thy  colors  in  my  cap, 

Thy  picture  a1  mj  heart, 
And  lie  i ha1  be]  ds  no1  to  thine  eye 

Shall  rue  it  to  his  smalt  I 


Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love  ; 

0,  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  ! 
For  thy  dear  sake  nae  care  I  '11  take, 

Though  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye, 

I  '11  dight  me  in  array  ; 
I  '11  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night, 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 
If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear, 

These  sounds  I  '11  strive  to  catch  ; 
Thy  voice  1  '11  steal  to  woo  thysell, 

That  voice  that  nane  can  match. 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow  ; 
Nae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me  ; 

I  never  loved  but  you. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue  ; 
For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing, 
0,  tell  me  how  to  woo  ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love  ; 

0,  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  ! 
For  thy  dear  sake  nae  care  I  '11  take, 
Though  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

Graham  of  Gartmore. 


MY   LOYE   IN    HER  ATTIRE. 

My   Love  in  her  attire  doth  show  her  wit, 

It  doth  so  well  become  her  : 
For  every  season  she  hath  dressings  fit, 
For  Winter,  Spring,  and  Summer. 
No  beauty  she  doth  miss 

When  all  her  robes  are  on  : 
But  beauty's  self  she  is 

When  all  her  robes  are  gone. 

anonymous. 


A  SLEEPING    BEAUTY. 

Sleep  on  !  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile  ! 

Though  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile, 

And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs. 

Ah  !  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks 

And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow  ; 
Ah  '  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks, 

WTial   most    |  wish,  and  fear,  to  know. 
She   -tarts,    she  trembles,   and   she  Weep     ' 

Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breasl  ; 

—  And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ; 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest  ! 


=B-~ 


■ff 


a- 


48 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


•a 


Sleep  on  secure  !     Above  control, 

Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee  ; 

And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 

Remain  within  its  sanctuary  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 


SHE  IS  NOT  FAIR  TO  OUTWARD  VIEW, 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view, 

As  many  maidens  be  ; 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me  : 
0,  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright,  — 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold ; 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply  ; 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold, 

The  love -light  in  her  eye  : 
Her  very  frowns  are  better  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are  ! 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


PHILLIS   IS   MY   ONLY  JOY. 

Phillis  is  my  only  joy 

Faithless  as  the  wind  or  seas  ; 
Sometimes  coming,  sometimes  coy, 
Yet  she  never  fails  to  please. 
If  with  a  frown 
I  am  cast  down, 
Phillis,  smiling 
And  beguiling, 
Makes  me  happier  than  before. 

Though,  alas  !  too  late  I  find 
Nothing  can  her  fancy  fix  ; 
Yet  the  moment  she  is  kind 
I  forgive  her  all  her  tricks  ; 
Which  though  I  see, 
I  can't  get  free  ; 
She  deceiving, 
I  believing, 
What  need  lovers  wish  for  more  ? 

Sir  Charles  Sedley. 


TO   ALTHEA   FROM   PRISON. 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates  ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 


The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crowned, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  linnetdike  confined,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  King  ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

• 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Colonel  Richard  Lovelace. 


i 


MY   LITTLE   SAINT. 

I  CAKE  not,  though  it  be 

By  the  preciser  sort  thought  popery  ; 

We  poets  can  a  license  show 

For  everything  we  do. 
Hear,  then,  my  little  saint  !  I  '11  pray  to  thee. 

If  now  thy  happy  mind, 

Amidst  its  various  joys,  can  leisure  find 

To  attend  to  anything  so  low 

As  what  I  say  or  do, 
Regard,  and  be  what  thou  wast  ever,  —  kind. 

Let  not  the  blest  above 

Engross  thee  quite,  but  sometimes  hither  rove  : 

Fain  would  I  thy  sweet  image  see, 

And  sit  and  talk  with  thee  ; 
Nor  is  it  curiosity,  but  love. 

Ah  !  what  delight  't  would  be, 
Wouldst  thou  sometimes  by  stealth  converse  with 
me  ! 

How  should  I  thy  sweet  commune  prize, 

And  other  joys  despise  ! 
Come,  then  !  I  ne'er  was  yet  denied  by  thee. 


ta- 


tf 


B- 


COMPLIMENT   AND   ADMIRATION. 


■a 


49 


I  would  not  long  detain 

Thy  soul  from  bliss,  nor  keep  thee  here  in  pain  ; 

Nor  should  thy  fellow-saints  e'er  know 

Of  thy  escape  below  : 
Before  thou 'rt  missed,  thou  shouldst  return  again. 

Sure,  heaven  must  needs  thy  love, 
As  well  as  other  qualities,  improve  : 

Come,  then  !  and  recreate  my  sight 

With  rays  of  thy  pure  light ; 
'T  will  cheer  my  eyes  more  than  the  lamps  above. 

But  if  Fate 's  so  severe 

As  to  confine  thee  to  thy  blissful  sphere, 

(And  by  thy  absence  I  shall  know 

Whether  thy  state  be  so,) 
Live  happy,  and  be  mindful  of  me  there. 

JOHN  NORRIS. 


A   GOLDEN   GIRL. 

Lucy  is  a  golden  girl ; 

But  a  man,  a  man,  should  woo  her  ! 
They  who  seek  her  shrink  aback, 

When  they  should,  like  storms,  pursue  her. 

All  her  smiles  are  hid  in  light ; 

All  her  hair  is  lost  in  splendor  ; 
But  she  hath  the  eyes  of  Night 

And  a  heart  that 's  over-tender. 

Yet  the  foolish  suitors  fly 

(Is  't  excess  of  dread  or  duty  ?) 
From  the  starlight  of  her  eye, 

Leaving  to  neglect  her  beauty  ! 

Men  by  fifty  seasons  taught 

Leave  her  to  a  young  beginner, 
Who,  without  a  second  thought, 

Whispers,  woos,  and  straight  must  win  her. 

Lucy  is  a  golden  girl  ! 

Toast  her  in  a  goblet  brimming  ! 
M:iv  the  man  that  wins  her  wear 

On  his  heart  the  Rose  of  Women  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


11V   SWEET   SWEETING. 

FROM  A  MS.  TEMP.   HENRY  VIII. 

Ah,  my  sweet  sweeting  ; 

My  little  pretty  sweeting, 

My  sweeting  will  I  love  wherever  I  go  ; 

She  is  so  proper  and  pore, 
Full,  steadfast,  Btable,  and  demure, 

There  is  Done  such,  yon  may  be  sure, 
As  my  sweet  sweeting. 
4 


In  all  this  world,  as  thinketh  me, 
Is  none  so  pleasant  to  my  e'e, 
That  I  am  glad  so  oft  to  see, 

As  my  sweet  sweeting. 
When  I  behold  my  sweeting  sweet, 
Her  face,  her  hands,  her  minion  feet, 
They  seem  to  me  there  is  none  so  mete, 

As  my  sweet  sweeting. 

Above  all  other  praise  must  I, 
And  love  my  pretty  pygsnye, 
For  none  I  find  so  womanly 

As  my  sweet  sweeting. 

Anonymous. 


THE   FLOWER'S   NAME. 

Here  's  the  garden  she  walked  across, 

Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since  : 
Hark  !  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges,  and  makes  them  wince. 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung  ; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail  my  chance  foot  spurned, 

To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel  walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box ; 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  phlox. 
Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by  ! 
She  loves  you,  noble  roses,  I  know  ; 

But  yonder  see  where  the  rock-plants  lie  ! 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip,  — - 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim  ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name. 
What  a  name  !  was  it  love  or  praise  ? 

Speech  half  asleep,  or  song  half  awake  ? 
I  must  learn  Spanish  one  of  these  days, 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sako. 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

1  may  bring  her  one  of  these  days, 

To  fix  you  fast  with  as  tine  a  spell,  — 
Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase. 

But  do  not  detain  me  now,  for  she  lingers 
There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground  ; 

And    ever   I    see   her  silft    white    lingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 

Flower,  you  Spaniard  !  look  that  you  grow  not, — ■ 

Stay  as  yon  are,  and  be  loved  forever. 
Bud.  if  I  kiss  you,  't  is  that  you  blow  not,  — ■ 
Mind  !  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never  I 


T? 


a- 


50 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


For  while  thus  it  pouts,  her  ringers  wrestle, 
Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 

Till  round  they  turn,  and  down  they  nestle  : 
Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen  ? 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish  ; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee. 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June 's twice  Junesince  she  breathed  itwith  me  ? 
Come,  bud  !  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces. 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall : 

Ah  !  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces,  — 

Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all  ! 

Robert  Bbowning. 


ON   A  GIRDLE. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  ; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  hath  done. 

It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer  : 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that 's  good,  and  all  that  \s  fair. 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound, 

Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round  ! 

Edmund  Waller. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  at  her  ear  ; 

For,  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I  'd  tpuch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest ; 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs  ; 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasped  at  night. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE   FLOWER   0'   DUMBLANE. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  thelofty  Ben  Lomond, 
And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o'er  the  scene, 

While  lanely  I  stray  in  the  calm  summergloamin', 
To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dum- 
blane. 

Howsweetis  the  brier,  wi'itssaft  fauldin'  blossom, 
And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi'  its  mantle  o'  green  ; 

Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  bosom, 
Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dumblane. 

She's  modest  as  ony,  andblithe  as  she  'sbonuie,  — 
For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain  ; 

And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  of  feeling, 
Wha  'd  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet  Flower  o' 
Dumblane. 

Sing   on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to  the 
e'ening  !  — 
Thou  'rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood  glen : 
Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning, 
Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dum- 
blane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I  met  wi'  my  Jessie  ! 

The  sports  o'  the  city  seemed  foolish  and  vain  ; 
I  ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  would  ca'  my  dear  lassie 

Till  charmed  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the  Flower  o' 
Dumblane. 

Though  mine  were  the  station  o'  loftiest  grandeur, 

Amidst  its  profusion  I  'd  languish  in  pain, 
And  reckon  as  naething  the  height  o'  its  splendor, 
If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  FlowTer  o'  Dum- 
blane. 

Robert  Tannahill. 


0,    SAW  YE   THE   LASS? 

0,  saw  ye  the  lass  wi'  the  bonny  blue  een  ? 
Her  smile  is  the  sweetest  that  ever  was  seen  ; 
Her  cheek  like  the  rose  is,  but  fresher,  I  ween  5 
She  's  the  loveliest  lassie  that  trips  on  the  green. 
The  home  of  my  love  is  below  in  the  valley, 
Where  wild-flowers  welcome  the  wandering  bee  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  flowers  in  that  spot  that  is  seen 
Is  the  maid  that  I  love  wi'  the  bonny  blue  een. 

"When  night  overshadows  her  cot  in  the  glen, 
She  '11  steal  out  to  meet  her  loved  Donald  again  ; 
And  when  the  moon  shines  on  the  valley  so  green, 
I  '11  welcome  the  lass  wi'  the  bonny  blue  een. 
As  the  dove  that  has  wandered  away  from  his  nest 
Returns  to  the  mate  his  fond  heart  loves  the  best, 
I  '11  fly  from  the  world's  false  and  vanishing  scene, 
To  my  dear  one,  the  lass  wi'  the  bonny  blue  een. 


Richard  Ryan. 


cy — 


-& 


COMPLIMENT  AND   ADMIRATION. 


51 


a 


THE   LASS   OF   RICHMOND   HILL. 

On  Richmond  Hill  there  lives  a  lass 
More  bright  than  May-day  morn, 

"Whose  charms  all  other  maids  surpass,  - 
A  rose  without  a  thorn. 

This  lass  so  neat,  with  smiles  so  sweet, 
Has  won  my  right  good-will ; 

I  'd  crowns  resign  to  call  her  mine, 
Sweet  lass  of  Richmond  Hill. 

Ye  zephyrs  gay,  that  fan  the  air, 

And  wanton  through  the  grove,       \ 

O,  whisper  to  my  charming  fair, 
I  die  for  her  I  love. 

How  happy  will  the  shepherd  be 

Who  calls  this  nymph  his  own  ! 

0,  may  her  choice  be  fixed  on  me  ! 
Mine 's  fixed  on  her  alone. 

UPTON. 


MARY  MORISON. 

0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  ! 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour  ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor  : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing,  — 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw  : 

Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

1  sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 
Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee  ? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 
Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 
At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ; 

A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

Robert  Burns. 


IN   THE   STILLNESS   0'   THE   NIGHT. 

DORSET    DIALECT. 

Ov  all  the  housen  o'  the  pliace 

Ther  's  aone  wher  I  4a  like  to  call, 


By  dae  ar  night,  the  best  ov  all, 
To  zee  my  Fanny's  smilen  liace  ; 
An'  dere  the  stiately  trees  da  grow, 
A-rocken  as  the  win'  da  blow, 
While  she  da  sweetly  sleep  below, 
In  the  stillness  o'  the  night. 

An'  dere  at  evemen  I  da  goo, 
A-hoppen  auver  ghiates  an'  bars, 
By  twinklen  light  o'  winter  stars, 

When  snow  da  clumper  to  my  shoe  ; 
An'  zometimes  we  da  slyly  catch 
A  chat,  an  hour  upon  the  stratch, 
An'  piart  wi'  whispers  at  the  hatch, 
In  the  stillness  o'  the  night. 

An'  zometimes  she  da  goo  to  zome 

Young  naighbours'  housen  clown  the  pliace, 
An'  I  da  get  a  clue  to  triace 
Her  out,  an'  goo  to  zee  her  huome. 
An'  I  da  wish  a  vield  a  mile, 
As  she  da  sweetly  chat  an'  smile 
Along  the  drove,  or  at  the  stile, 
In  the  stillness  o'  the  night. 

William  Barnes. 


0   MISTRESS   MINE. 

0  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
0,  stay  and  hear  !  your  true-love 's  coming 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  ; 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting,  — 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?  't  is  not  hereafter  ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

"What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty,  — - 
Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth  's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


THE   LOW-BACKED   CAR. 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Leggy, 

'T  was  on  a  market  day  : 
A  low-backed  car  she  drove,  and  sat 

Upon  a  truss  of  hay  ; 
But  when  thai  hay  was  blooming  grass, 

And  decked  with  flowers  of  spring, 
No  flower  was  there  that  could  compare 

Witli  the  blooming  girl  I  sing. 
As  she  sat  in  the  low-backed  car, 
The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  asked  for  the  toll, 
But  just  rubbed  his  owld  poll, 
And  looked  after  the  low-backed  car. 


-T? 


a-: 


52 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


In  battle's  wild  commotion, 

The  proud  and  mighty  Mars 
"With  hostile  scythes  demands  his  tithes 

Of  death  in  warlike  cars  ; 
While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

Has  darts  in  her  bright  eye, 
That  knock  men  down  in  the  market  town, 

As  right  and  left  they  fly  ; 
"While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 
Than  battle  more  dangerous  far,  — 
For  the  doctor's  art 
Cannot  cure  the  heart, 
That  is  hit  from  that  low-backed  car. 

Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir, 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 
But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters 

By  far  outnumber  these  ; 
"While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

Just  like  a  turtle-dove, 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  Love  ! 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 
The  lovers  come  near  and  far, 
And  envy  the  chicken 
That  Peggy  is  pickin', 
As  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car. 

0,  I  'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 
Than  a  coach  and  four,  and  gold  galore, 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride  ; 
For  the  lady  would  sit  forninst  me, 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste, 
While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me, 

With  my  arm  around  her  waist, 
While  we  drove  in  the  low-backed  car, 
To  be  married  by  Father  Mahar  ; 

0,  my  heart  would  beat  high 

At  her  glance  and  her  sigh,  — 

Though  it  beat  in  a  low-backed  car  ! 

Samuel  lover. 


t 


SALLY  IN   OUR  ALLEY. 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

There 's  none  like  pretty  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em  ; 


Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 
To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em  ; 

But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 
So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally  ! 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely  ; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely. 
But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful,  — 

I  '11  bear  it  all  for  Sally  ; 
For  she  's  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that 's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day, 
And  that 's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

The  Saturday  and  Monday  ; 
For  then  I  'm  drest  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named  : 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time, 

And  slink  away  to  Sally,  — 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again, 

O,  then  I  shall  have  money  ! 
I  '11  hoard  it  up,  and,  box  and  all, 

I  '11  give  it  to  my  honey  ; 
0,  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound  ! 

I  'd  give  it  all  to  Sally  ; 
For  she  's  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbors  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And  but  for  her  I  'd  better  be 

A  slave,  and  row  a  galley  ; 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out, 

0,  then  I  '11  marry  Sally  ! 

0,  then  we  '11  wed,  and  then  we  '11  bed,  — 

But  not  in  our  alley  ! 

Henry  Carey. 


LOVELY   MARY   DONNELLY. 

0  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it 's  you  I  love  the 

best ! 
If  fifty  girls  were  around  you,  I  'd  hardly  see  the 

rest ; 


-^ 


COMPLIMENT  AND   ADMIRATION. 


■a 


53 


Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be 

where  it  will, 
Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before 

me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that 's  flowing  on 

a  rock, 
How  clear  they  are  !  how  dark  they  are  !  and 

they  give  me  many  a  shock  ; 
Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine,  and  wetted  with 

a  shower, 
Could  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip  that  has 

me  in  its  power. 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eyebrows 

lifted  up, 
Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth  like 

a  china  cup  ; 
Her  hair  's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty  and 

so  fine,  — 
It 's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gathered 

in  a  twine. 

The  dance  o'  last  "Whit-Monday  night  exceeded 

all  before  ; 
No  pretty  girl  for  miles  around  was  missing  from 

the  floor ; 
But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  0,  but  she 

was  gay  ; 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  and  took  my 

heart  away  ! 

"When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were 

so  complete, 
The  music  nearly  killed  itself,  to  listen  to  her 

feet ; 
The  fiddler  mourned  his  blindness,  he  heard  her 

so  much  praised, 
But  blessed  himself  he  wasn't  deaf  when  once 

her  voice  she  raised. 


And  evermore  I  'm  whistling  or  lilting  what  you 
sung  ; 

Foursmile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your  name  be- 
side my  tongue. 

lint  you  've  as  many  sweethearts  as  you  'd  count 
on  both  your  hands, 

And  for  myself  there's  not  a  thumb  or  little 
ringer  stands. 

1 »,  you're  tin-  flower  of  womankind,  in  country 

or  in  tow  1 1  ; 
Tli''  higher  I  exult  you,  tie'  lower  I  'm  casl  down. 
If  Mime  greal  lord  should  come  this  way  an 

your  beauty  bright, 

Ami  yon  to  !»■  his  lady,  I  'd  own  it  was  1ml  right. 


0,  might  we  live  together  in  lofty  palace  hall, 

Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet  cur- 
tains fall ; 

0,  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage  mean  and 
small, 

"With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud  the 
only  wall  ! 

0  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty 's  my  dis- 
tress ; 

It 's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I  '11  never 
wish  it  less ; 

The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and  I  am 
poor  and  low, 

But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you 
may  go ! 

William  Allingham. 


THE   POSIE. 

0,  LUTE  will  venture  in  where  it  daurna  weel  be 

seen, 
0,  luve  will  venture  in  where  wisdom  ance  has  been ! 
But  I  will  down  yon  river  rove  amang  the  woods 
sae  green  : 
And  a'  to  pu'  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu',  the  firstling  o'  the  year, 
And  I  will  pu'  the  pink,  the  emblem  o'  my  dear, 
For  she  's  the  pink  o'  womankind,  and  blooms 
without  a  peer  : 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I  '11  pu'  the  budding  rose,  when  Phcebus  peeps  in 

view, 
For  it 's  likeabalmykiss  o'  her  sweet  bonnie  mou' ; 
The  hyacinth  's  for  constancy,  wi'  its  unchanging 

blue : 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

Tin'  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair, 
Ami  in  her  lovely  bosom  1  '11  place  the  lily  there  ; 
The  daisy's  for  simplicity  ami  unaffected  air  : 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  .May. 

The  hawthorn  I  will  pu',  wi'  itslockso'  sillergray, 
Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands al  break  o'day ; 
But  the  songster's  nest  within  the  bush  I  winna 

take  away  : 
And  a'  to  he  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  .May. 

The  woodbine  1  will  pu',  when  the  e'ening  star 

is  near. 
And  the  diamond  draps  o'  dew  shall  he  her  een 

sae  clear ; 
The  violet  's  lor  modesty,  which  weel  she  fa's  to 

wear  : 
And  a'  t<>  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 


tf 


a- 


54 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


I  '11  tie  the  posie  round  wi'  the  silken  band  o'  luve, 
And  I  '11  place  it  in  her  breast,  and  I  '11  swear  by 

a'  above, 
That  to  rny  latest  draught  o'  life  the  band  shall 

ne'er  remove  : 
And  this  will  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 


Robert  Burns. 


-♦ 


MARY   LEE. 

I  have  traced  the  valleys  fair 
In  May  morning's  dewy  air, 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee  ! 
Wilt  thou  deign  the  wreath  to  wear, 

Gathered  all  for  thee  ? 
They  are  not  flowers  of  Pride, 
For  they  graced  the  dingle-side  ; 
Yet  they  grew  in  Heaven's  smile, 

My  gentle  Mary  Lee  ! 
Can  they  fear  thy  frowns  the  while 

Though  offered  by  me  ? 

Here  's  the  lily  of  the  vale, 
That  perfumed  the  morning  gale, 

My  fairy  Mary  Lee  ! 
All  so  spotless  and  so  pale, 

Like  thine  own  purity. 
And  might  I  make  it  known, 
'T  is  an  emblem  of  my  own 
Love,  —  if  I  dare  so  name 

My  esteem  for  thee. 
Surely  flowers  can  bear  no  blame, 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee. 

Here  's  the  violet's  modest  blue, 

That  'neath  hawthorns  hides  from  view, 

My  gentle  Mary  Lee, 
Would  show  whose  heart  is  true, 

While  it  thinks  of  thee. 
While  they  choose  each  lowly  spot, 
The  sun  disdains  them  not ; 
I  'm  as  lowly  too,  indeed, 

My  charming  Mary  Lee  ; 
So  I  've  brought  the  flowers  to  plead, 

And  win  a  smile  from  thee. 

Here  's  a  wild  rose  just  in  bud  ; 
Spring's  beauty  in  its  hood, 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee  ! 
T  is  the  first  in  all  the  wood 

I  could  find  for  thee. 
Though  a  blush  is  scarcely  seen, 
Yet  it  hides  its  worth  within, 
Like  my  love  ;  for  I  've  no  power, 

My  angel  Mary  Lee, 
To  speak  unless  the  flower 

Can  make  excuse  for  me. 


Though  they  deck  no  princely  halls, 
In  bouquets  for  glittering  balls, 

My  gentle  Mary  Lee  ! 
Richer  hues  than  painted  walls 

Will  make  them  dear  to  thee  ; 
For  the  blue  and  laughing  sky 
Spreads  a  grander  canopy 
Than  all  wealth's  golden  skill, 

My  charming  Mary  Lee  ! 
Love  would  make  them  dearer  still, 

That  offers  them  to  thee. 

My  wreathed  flowers  are  few, 
Yet  no  fairer  drink  the  dew, 

My  bonny  Mary  Lee  ! 
They  may  seem  as  trifles  too,  — 

Not,  I  hope,  to  thee  ; 
Some  may  boast- a  richer  prize 
Under  pride  and  wealth's  disguise  ; 
None  a  fonder  offering  bore 

Than  this  of  mine  to  thee  ; 
And  can  true  love  wish  for  more  ? 

Surely  not,  Mary  Lee  ! 

John  Clare. 


ANNIE   LAURIE. 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie 
Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it 's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true,  — 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true, 
Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be  ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw  drift ; 
Her  throat  is  like  the  swan  ; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on,  — 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on  ; 
And  dark  blue  is  her  ee  ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 

Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet ; 

And  like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet,  — 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet  ; 

And  she  's  a'  the  world  to  me  ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

ANONYMOUS. 


a- 


LOVE. 


55 


■a 


LOVE 


LOVE  IS  A  SICKNESS. 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes, 

All  remedies  refusing  ; 
A  plant  that  most  with  cutting  grows, 
Most  barren  with  best  using. 
Why  so  ? 
More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies  ; 
If  not  enjoyed,  it  sighing  cries 
Heigh-ho  ! 

Love  is  a  torment  of  the  mind, 

A  tempest  everlasting  ; 
And  Jove  hath  made  it  of  a  kind, 

Not  well,  nor  full,  nor  fasting. 
Why  so  ? 
More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies  ; 
If  not  enjoyed,  it  sighing  cries 


Heigh-ho  ! 


Samuel  Daniel. 


AH  !   WHAT   IS   LOVE  ? 

Ah  !  what  is  love  ?     It  is  a  pretty  thing, 
As  sweet  unto  a  shepherd  as  a  king, 

And  sweeter  too  ; 
For  kings  have  cares  that  wait  upon  a  crown, 
And  cares  can  make  the  sweetest  face  to  frown  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

His  flocks  are  folded  ;  he  comes  home  at  night 
As  merry  as  a  king  in  his  delight, 

And  merrier  too  ; 
For  kings  bethink  them  what  the  state  require, 
Where  shepherds,  careless,  carol  by  the  fire  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
[f  country  love  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

He  kisseth  first,  then  sits  as  blithe  to  eat 
His  cream  and  curd  as  doth  the  king  Ids  meat, 

And  blither  too  ; 
For  kings  have  often  fears  when  they  sup, 
Where  shepherd    dread  no  poison  in  their  cup  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
If  country  hives  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
What  laily  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Dpon  his  couch  of  straw  lie  Bleeps  as  Bound 
As  doth  the  king  upon  his  beds  of  down, 
More  sounder  too  ; 


For  cares  cause  kings  full  oft  their  sleep  to  spill, 
Where  weary  shepherds  lie  and  snort  their  fill  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
AVhat  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Thus  with  his  wife  he  spends  the  year  as  blithe 
As  doth  the  king  at  every  tide  or  syth, 

And  blither  too  >; 
For  kings  have  wars  and  broils  to  take  in  hand, 
When  shepherds  laugh,  and  love  upon  the  land  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Robert  Greene. 


TELL  ME,  MY  HEART,  IF  THIS  BE  LOVE. 

When  Delia  on  the  plain  appears, 
Awed  by  a  thousand  tender,  fears, 
I  would  approach,  but  dare  not  move  ;  — 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love. 

Whene'er  she  speaks,  my  ravished  ear 
No  other  voice  than  hers  can  hear  ; 
No  other  wit  but  hers  approve  ;  — 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love. 

If  she  some  other  swain  commend, 
Though  I  was  once  his  fondest  friend, 
His  instant  enemy  I  prove  ;  — 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love. 

When  she  is  absent,  I  no  more 

Delight  in  all  that  pleased  hefore, 

The  clearest  spring,  the  shadiest  grove  ;  — 

Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love. 

When  fond  of  power,  of  beauty  fain. 
Her  nets  she  spread  for  every  swain, 
I  strove  to  hate,  hut  vainly  strove  ;  — 

Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love. 

George  Lord  Lyttelton. 


ECHOES. 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 

To  Music  at  night 
When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 
And  far  away  o'er  lawns  and  hikes 

Goes  answering  light  ! 


IB- 


# 


5b 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far 

And  far  more  sweet 
Than  e'er,  beneath  the  moonlight's  star, 
Of  horn  or  lute  or  soft  guitar 

The  songs  repeat. 

'T  is  when  the  sigh  —  in  youth  sincere 

And  only  then, 
The  sigh  that  's  breathed  for  one  to  hear  — 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  Dear 

Breathed  back  again. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


Like  fire  in  logs,  it  glows  and  warms  'em  long  ; 
And  though  the  flame  be  not  so  great, 


Yet  is  the  heat  as  strong. 


AH,    HOW  SWEET. 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love  ! 

Ah,  how  gay  is  young  desire  ! 
And  what  pleasing  pains  we  prove 

"When  we  first  approach  love's  fire  ! 
Pains  of  love  are  sweeter  far 
Than  all  other  pleasures  are. 

Sighs  which  are  from  lovers  blown 
Do  but  gently  heave  the  heart  : 

E'en  the  tears  they  shed  alone 

Cure,  like  trickling  balm,  their  smart. 

Lovers,  when  they  lose  their  breath, 

Bleed  away  in  easy  death. 

Love  and  Time  with  reverence  use, 
Treat  them  like  a  parting  friend ; 

Nor  the  golden  gifts  refuse 

Which  in  youth  sincere  they  send  : 

For  each  year  their  price  is  more, 

And  they  less  simple  than  before. 

Love,  like  spring-tides  full  and  high, 
Swells  in  every  youthful  vein  ; 

But  each  tide  does  less  supply, 
Till  they  quite  shrink  in  again. 

If  a  flow  in  age  appear, 

'T  is  but  rain,  and  runs  not  clear. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 


THE   FIRE   OF   LOVE. 

FROM    THE    "  EXAMEN    MISCELLANEUM,"  1708. 

The  fire  of  love  in  youthful  blood, 
Like  what  is  kindled  in  brushwood, 

But  for  a  moment  burns  ; 
Yet  in  that  moment  makes  a  mighty  noise  ; 
It  crackles,  and  to  vapor  turns, 

And  soon  itself  destroys. 

But  when  crept  into  aged  veins 
It  slowly  burns,  and  then  long  remains, 
And  with  a  silent  heat, 


Earl  of  Dorset. 


THE   AGE   OF   WISDOM. 

Ho  !  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 
That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear, 

All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win  ; 

This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin,  — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains  ; 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer,  — 
Sighing,  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybell's  window-panes,  — 

Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass  ; 

Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear  ; 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass, 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass,  — 

Once  you  have  come  to  forty  year. 

Pledge  me  round  ;  1  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray,  — 

Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  past  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away  and  never  be  missed,  — 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian 's  dead  !  God  rest  her  bier,  — 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne  ! 

Marian 's  married  ;  but  I  sit  here, 

Alone  and  merry  at  forty  year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


THE    DECEIVED    LOVER    SUETH    ONLY 
FOR   LIBERTY. 

If  chance  assigned, 
Were  to  my  mind, 
By  every  kind 

Of  destiny  ; 
Yet  would  I  crave 
Naught  else  to  have, 

But  dearest  life  and  liberty. 

Then  were  I  sure, 
I  might  endure 
The  displeasure 

Of  cruelty ; 


& 


a- 


LOVE. 


ft 


57 


Where  now  I  plain 
Alas  !  in  vain, 

Lacking  my  life  for  liberty. 

For  without  th'  one, 
Th'  other  is  gone, 
And  there  can  none 
It  remedy ; 
If  th'  one  he  past, 
Th'  other  doth  waste, 

And  all  for  lack  of  liberty. 

And  so  I  drive, 
As  yet  alive, 
Although  I  strive 

AVith  misery ; 
Drawing  my  breath, 
Looking  for  death, 

And  loss  of  life  for  liberty. 

But  thou  that  still, 
May'st  at  thy  will, 
Turn  all  this  ill 

Adversity  ; 
For  the  repair, 
Of  my  welfare, 

Grant  me  but  life  and  liberty. 

And  if  not  so, 
Then  let  all  go 
To  wretched  woe, 

And  let  me  die  ; 
For  th'  one  or  th'  other, 
There  is  none  other  ; 

My  death,  or  life;  with  liberty. 

Sir  Thomas  wyatt. 


MY   TRUE-LOVE   HATH   MY   HEART. 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given  : 

I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one  ; 
My   heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses 
guides  : 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  Ids  own  ; 

I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides  : 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


I  SAW  TWO   CLOUDS   AT   MORNING. 

I  saw  two  clouds  at  morninc. 

Tinged  by  the  rising  sun. 
And  in  the  daw  n  they  floated  on, 

And  mingled  into  one  ; 


I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blessed, 
It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

I  saw  two  summer  currents 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 

And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 
In  peace  each  other  greeting  ; 

Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of  green, 

While  dimpling  eddies  played  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 

Till  Life's  last  pulse  shall  beat ; 
Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer's  stream, 

Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
A  cabner  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease, 
A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 

JOHN  g.  c.  BRAINARD. 


LOVE'S   PHILOSOPHY. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean  ; 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  forever, 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single  ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle  :  — 

Why  not  I  with  tlune  ? 

See  !  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another  ; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother  ; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  :  — 
What  are  all  these  hissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


THOSE   EYES. 

An  !  do  not  wanton  with  those  eyes, 

Lest  I  be  sick  with  seeing ; 
Nor  cast  them  down,  but  let  them  rise, 

Lest  shame  destroy  their  being. 

Ah  !  be  not  angry  with  those  (ires. 

For  then  their  threats  will  kill  me  ; 
Nor  look  too  kind  mi  my  desires, 

For  then  my  hopes  will  spill  me. 

Ah  !  do  not  steep  them  in  thy  tears, 

For  so  will  sorrow  slay  lie'  ; 
Nor  spread  them  as  distraught  witli  fear-. 

Mine  own  enough  betray  me. 

Hen  Jonson 


■B- 


-i 


5S 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


SWEET,    BE   NOT   PROUD. 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes, 
"Which  starlike  sparkle  in  their  skies  ; 
Nor  be  you  proud  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives,  yours  yet  free. 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair, 
"Which  wantons  with  the  lovesick  air  ; 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
"Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty  's  gone. 

Robert  Herrick. 


GREEN   GROW   THE   RASHES   0  ! 

Greex  grow  the  rashes  0, 

Green  grow  the  rashes  0  ; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 

Are  spent  amang  the  lasses  0. 

There 's  naught  but  care  on  ev'ry  han', 

In  every  hour  that  passes  0  ; 
WThat  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 

An'  't  were  na  for  the  lasses  0  ? 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 
An'  riches  still  may  My  them  0  ; 

An'  though  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them  0. 

Gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie  0, 
An'  warly  cares  an'  warly  men 

May  all  gae  tapsalteerie  O. 

For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this, 
Ye  're  naught  but  senseless  asses  0  ! 

The  wisest  man  the  waiT  e'er  saw 
He  dearly  lo'ed  the  lasses  0. 

Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes  0  : 

Her  'prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses  0. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


THE   CHRONICLE. 

Margarita  first  possessed, 
If  I  remember  well,  my  breast, 

Margarita  first  of  all  ; 
But  when  awhile  the  wanton  maid 
With  my  restless  heart  had  played, 

Martha  took  the  flying  ball. 


Martha  soon  did  it  resign 
To  the  beauteous  Catharine. 

Beauteous  Catharine  gave  place 
(Though  loath  and  angry  she  to  part 
With  the  possession  of  my  heart) 

To  Eliza's  conquering  face. 

Eliza  till  this  hoiir  might  reign, 
Had  she  not  evil  counsels  ta'en  ; 

Fundamental  laws  she  broke, 
And  still  new  favorites  she  chose, 
Till  up  in  arms  my  passions  rose, 

And  cast  away  her  yoke. 

Mary  then,  and  gentle  Anne, 
Both  to  reign  at  once  began  ; 

Alternately  they  swa}red  ; 
And  sometimes  Mary  was  the  fair, 
And  sometimes  Anne  the  crown  did  wear, 

And  sometimes  both  I  obeyed. 

Another  Mary  then  arose, 
And  did  rigorous  laws  impose  ; 

A  mighty  tyrant  she  ! 
Long,  alas  !  should  I  have  been 
Under  that  iron-sceptred  queen, 

Had  not  Rebecca  set  me  free. 

When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 

'T  was  then  a  golden  time  with  me  : 

But  soon  those  pleasures  fled  ; 
For  the  gracious  princess  died 
In  her  youth  and  beauty's  pride, 

And  Judith  reigned  in  her  stead. 

One  month,  three  days,  and  half  an  hour, 
Judith  held  the  sovereign  powTer  : 

Wondrous  beautiful  her  face  ! 
But  so  weak  and  small  her  wit, 
That  she  to  govern  was  unfit, 

And  so  Susanna  took  her  place. 

But  when  Isabella  came, 
Armed  with  a  resistless  flame, 

And  the  artillery  of  her  eye, 
Whilst  she  proudly  marched  about, 
Greater  conquests  to  find  out, 

She  beat  out  Susan,  by  the  by. 

But  in  her  place  I  then  obeyed 
Black-eyed  Bess,  her  viceroy-maid, 

To  whom  ensued  a  vacancy  : 
Thousand  worse  passions  then  possessed 
The  interregnum  of  my  breast ; 

Bless  me  from  such  an  anarchy  ! 

Gentle  Henrietta  then, 

And  a  third  Mary  next  began  ; 

Then  Joan,  and  Jane,  and  Andria  ; 
And  then  a  pretty  Thomasine, 
And  then  another  Catharine, 

And  then  a  Ion"  ct  ccctcra. 


-_a 


a- 


LOVE. 


-B 


59 


But  I  will  briefer  with  them  be, 
Since  few  of  them  were  long  with  me. 

An  higher  and  a  nobler  strain 
My  present  emperess  does  claim, 
Heleonora,  first  of  the  name  ; 

Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign  ! 

Abraham  Cowley. 


A   DOUBT. 

FROM    THE   THIRD    BOOK   OF    LAWES's    AYRES. 

Fain  would  I  love,  but  that  I  fear 
I  quickly  should  the  willow  wear  ; 
Fain  would  I  marry,  but  men  say 
"When  love  is  tied  he  will  away  ; 
Then  tell  me,  love,  what  shall  I  do, 
To  cure  these  fears,  whene'er  I  woo  ? 

The  fair  one  she  's  a  mark  to  all, 
The  brown  each  one  doth  lovely  call, 
The  black  's  a  pearl  in  fair  men's  eyes, 
The  rest  will  stoop  at  any  prize  ; 
Then  tell  me,  love,  what  shall  I  do, 
To  cure  these  fears  whene'er  I  woo  ? 

Dr.  r.  Hughes. 


WISHES  FOR  THE  SUPPOSED  MISTRESS. 

Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  She 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me  ; 

Where'er  she  lie, 

Locked  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny  : 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  pur  earth  ; 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine  : 

—  Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 

Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 

And  be  ye  called,  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  beauty 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie  : 

Something  more  than 

Tilleta  01'  tissue  can, 

Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

A  face  thai  's  besl 

By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  command  the  resl  : 


A  face  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

Sydneian  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers. 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  day's  forehead  bright 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  night. 

Soft  silken  hours, 

Open  suns,  shady  bowers  ; 

'Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow  : 

Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

Life,  that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  his  end, 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  ' '  Welcome,  friend. 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes  ;  and  I  wish  —  no  more. 

—  Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows  ; 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  line6  wish  to  see  : 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

'T  is  She,  and  here 

Lo  !  I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  wishes'  cloudy  character. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory, 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye  ; 

Be  ye  my  fictions  :  —  but  her  story. 

R.  Crashaw. 


RIVALRY   IN   LOVE. 

Of  all  the  torments,  all  the  cares, 

With  which  our  lives  are  curst; 
Of  all  the  plagues  a  lover  bears, 

Sure  rivals  are  the  worst  ! 
By  partners  in  each  other  kind, 

Afflictions  easier  grow  ; 
In  love  alone  we  hate  to  find 

Companions  of  our  woe. 


& 


60 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


a 


Sylvia,  for  all  the  pangs  you  see 
Are  lab'ring  in  my  breast ; 

I  beg  not  you  would  favor  me, 
Would  you  but  slight  the  rest ! 

How  great  soe'er  your  rigors  are, 
With  them  alone  I  '11  cope 4 

I  can  endure  my  own  despair, 

But  not  another's  hope. 

William  Walsh. 


THE   MAIDEN'S   CHOICE. 

Genteel  in  personage, 
Conduct,  and  equipage  ; 
Noble  by  heritage  ; 
Generous  and  free  ; 

Brave,  not  romantic  ; 
Learned,  not  pedantic ; 
Frolic,  not  frantic,  — - 
This  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 
Meanness  disdaining, 
Still  entertaining, 
Engaging  and  new ; 

Neat,  but  not  finical ; 

Sage,  but  not  cynical ; 

Never  tyrannical, 

But  ever  true. 

Henry  Fielding. 


THE   LOVELINESS   OF   LOVE. 

It  is  not  Beauty  I  demand, 

A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair, 

Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand, 
Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair  : 

Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes, 
Your  lips  that  seem  on  roses  fed, 

Your  breasts,  where  Cupid  tumbling  lies 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed,  — 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks 
Like  Hebe's  in  her  ruddiest  hours, 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks 

Than  summer  winds  a- wooing  flowers  ;  — 

These  are  but  gauds  :  nay,  what  are  lips  ? 

Coral  beneath  the  ocean-stream, 
Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  slips 

Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks,  but  ensigns  oft 
That  wave  hot  youth  to  fields  of  blood  ? 

Did  Helen's  breast,  though  ne'er  so  soft, 
Do  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 


Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardor  burn  ; 

Poison  can  breath,  that  erst  perfumed  ; 
There 's  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn 

With  lovers'  hearts  to  dust  consumed. 

For  crystal  brows  there 's  naught  within  ; 

They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride  ; 
He  who  the  Siren's  hair  would  win 

Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  Beauty's  bust, 

A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind, 
Which  with  temptation  I  would  trust, 

Yet  never  linked  with  error  find,  — 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 

Like  the  care -burdened  honey-fly 

That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose,  — 

My  earthly  Comforter  !  whose  love 

So  indefeasible  might  be 
That,  when  my  spirit  wonned  above, 

Hers  could  not  stay,  for  sympathy. 

ANONYMOUS. 


MY  DEAR   AND   ONLY   LOVE. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  1  pray, 

This  noble  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchic 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhore, 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

Like  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone, 
My  thoughts  shall  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne- 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
That  puts  it  not  unto  the  touch, 

To  win  or  lose  it  all. 

•  •  • 

James  Graham,  Earl  of  Montrose. 


MY   CHOICE. 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  awhile  to  me  ; 
And  if  such  a  woman  move 

As  I  now  shall  versify, 
Be  assured  't  is  she  or  none, 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 


-£3 


c& 


LOVE. 


fl 


Gl 


Nature  did  her  so  much  right 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art. 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 
As  e'er  yet  embraced  a  heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desier 

To  make  known  how  much  she  hath  ; 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 

Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 
Full  of  pity  as  may  be, 
Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 

Eeason  masters  every  sense, 

And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth  ; 

Lovely  as  all  excellence, 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth. 

Likelihood  enough  to  prove 

Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  she  is  ;  and  if  you  know 

Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung  ; 
Be  she  brown,  or  fair,  or  so 

That  she  be  but  somewhat  young  ; 
Be  assured  't  is  she,  or  none, 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

William  Browne. 


LOVE    NOT    ME    FOR    COMELY    GRACE. 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart  ; 
For  those  may  fail  or  turn  to  ilL 

So  thou  and  I  shall  sever  ; 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why. 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 

To  dote  upon  me  ever. 

ANONYMOUS. 


HE  THAT   LOVES   A   ROSY   CHEEK. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  starlike  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires  ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind 
Genth  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 

II'  arts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires  :  — 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

T.  Carew. 


LOVE   ME   LITTLE,    LOVE   ME   LONG. 

ORIGINALLY    PRINTED   IN    1569. 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long-  ' 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song  : 
•  Love  that  is  too  hot  and  strong 

Burnetii  soon  to  waste. 
Still  I  would  not  have  thee  cold,  — 
Not  too  backward,  nor  too  bold  ; 
Love  that  lasteth  till 't  is  old 

Fadeth  not  in  haste. 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long  ! 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

If  thou  lovest  me  too  much, 

'T  will  not  prove  as  true  a  touch ; 

Love  me  little  more  than  such,  — 

For  I  fear  the  end. 
I  'm  with  little  well  content, 
And  a  little  from  thee  sent 
Is  enough,  with  true  intent 

To  be  steadfast,  friend. 

Say  thou  lovest  me,  while  thou  live 
I  to  thee  my  love  will  give, 
Never  dreaming  to  deceive 

While  that  life  endures  ; 
Nay,  and  after  death,  in  sooth, 
I  to  thee  will  keep  my  truth, 
As  now  when  in  my  May  of  youth  : 

This  my  love  assures. 

Constant  love  is  moderate  ever, 
And  it  will  through  life  persever  ; 
Give  me  that  with  true  endeavor,  — ■ 

I  will  it  restore. 
A  suit  of  durance  let  it  be, 
For  all  weathers,  —  that  for  me,  — 
For  the  land  or  for  the  sea  : 

Lasting  evermore. 

Winter's  cold  or  summer's  heat, 
Autumn's  tempests  on  it  beat ; 
It  can  never  know  defeat, 

Never  can  rebel  : 
Such  the  love  that  I  would  gain, 
Such  the  love,  I  tell  thee  plain, 
Thou  must  give,  or  woo  in  vain  : 

So  to  thee  —  farewell  ! 

ANONYMOU? 


SONG. 


<&- 


Sir ai.t,  I  love  you  like  the  wind,  love, 
That  is  so  fierce  and  strong, 

That  sweeps  all  barriers  from  its  path 
And  reeks  not  right  or  wrone  ? 

The  passion  of  the  wind,  love, 
Can  never  last  for  long. 


J 


62 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


Shall  I  love  you  like  the  fire,  love, 
With  furious  heat  and  noise, 

To  waken  in  you  all  love's  fears 
And  little  of  love's  joys  ? 

The  passion  of  the  fire,  love, 
Whate'er  it  finds,  destroys. 

I  will  love  you  like  the  stars,  love, 

Set  in  the  heavenly  blue, 
That  only  shine  the  brighter 

After  weeping  tears  of  dew  ; 
Above  the  wind  and  fire,  love, 

They  love  the  ages  through  ! 

And  when  this  life  is  o'er,  love, 

With  all  its  joys  and  jars, 
We  '11  leave  behind  the  wind  and  fire 

To  wage  their  boisterous  wars,  — 

Then  we  shall  only  be,  love, 

The  nearer  to  the  stars  ! 

R.  w.  Raymond. 


A    "MERCENARY"   MARRIAGE. 

She  moves  as  light  across  the  grass 

As  moves  my  shadow  large  and  tall ; 
And  like  my  shadow,  close  yet  free, 
The  thought  of  her  aye  follows  me, 
My  little  maid  of  Moreton  Hall. 

No  matter  how  or  where  we  loved, 
Or  when  we  '11  wed,  or  what  befall ; 

I  only  feel  she  's  mine  at  last, 

I  only  know  I  '11  hold  her  fast, 

Though  to  dust  crumbles  Moreton  Hall. 

Her  pedigree  —  good  sooth,  't  is  long  ! 

Her  grim  sires  stare  from  every  wall ; 
And  centuries  of  ancestral  grace 
Revive  in  her  sweet  girlish  face, 

As  meek  she  glides  through  Moreton  Hall. 

Whilst  I  have  —  nothing  ;  save,  perhaps, 

Some  worthless  heaps  of  idle  gold 
Ami  a  true  heart,  — the  which  her  eye 
Through  glittering  dross  spied,  womanly  ; 
Therefore  they  say  Jicr  heart  was  sold  ! 

I  laugh  ;  she  laughs  ;  the  hills  and  vales 
Laugh  as  we  ride  'neath  chestnuts  tall, 
Or  start  the  deer  that  silent  graze, 
And  look  up,  large-eyed,  with  soft  gaze, 
At  the  fair  maid  of  Moreton  Hall ; 

We  let  the  neighbors  talk  their  fill, 

Yor  life  is  sweet,  and  love  is  strong, 
And  two,  close  knit  in  marriage  ties, 
The  whole  world's  shams  may  well  despise,  - 
Its  folly,  madness,  shame,  and  wrong. 


We  are  not  proud,  with  a  fool's  pride, 
Nor  cowards,  —  to  be  held  in  thrall 
By  pelf  or  lineage,  rank  or  lands  :  — 
One  honest  heart,  two  honest  hands, 
Are  worth  far  more  than  Moreton  Hall. 

Therefore  we  laugh  to  scorn  —  we  two  — 

The  bars  that  weaker  souls  appall  : 
I  take  her  hand,  and  hold  it  fast, 
Knowing  she  '11  love  me  to  the  last, 
My  dearest  maid  of  Moreton  Hall. 

Dinah  Mabia  Mulock. 


AMY'S   CRUELTY. 


Fair  Amy  of  the  terraced  house, 

Assist  me  to  discover 
Why  you  who  would  nof  hurt  a  mouse 

Can  torture  so  your  lover. 

ii. 

You  give  your  coffee  to  the  cat, 

You  stroke  the  dog  for  coming, 
And  all  your  face  grows  kinder  at 

The  little  brown  bee's  humming. 

in. 

But  when  lie  haunts  your  door .  .  .  the  town 
Marks  coming  and  marks  going .  .  . 

You  seem  to  have  stitched  your  eyelids  dowa 
To  that  long  piece  of  sewing  ! 

IV. 

You  never  give  a  look,  not  you, 
Nor  drop  him  a  "  Good  morning," 

To  keep  his  long  day  warm  and  blue, 
So  fretted  by  your  scorning. 

v. 

She  shook  her  head  :  "  The  mouse  and  bee 
For  crumb  or  flower  will  linger  ; 

The  dog  is  happy  at  my  knee, 
The  cat  purrs  at  my  finger. 

VI. 

"  But  Tie ...  to  him,  the  least  thing  given 
Means  great  things  at  a  distance  ; 

He  wants  my  world,  my  sun,  my  heaven, 
Soul,  body,  whole  existence. 

VII. 

"  They  say  love  gives  as  well  as  takes  ; 

But  I  'm  a  simple  maiden,  — 
My  mother's  first  smile  when  she  wakes 

I  still  have  smiled  and  prayed  in. 

VIII. 

"  I  only  know  my  mother's  love 
Which  gives  all  and  asks  nothing, 


B- 


-ff 


iff 


LOVE. 


■a 


G3 


And  this  new  loving  sets  the  groove 
Too  much  the  way  of  loathing. 


IX. 

"  Unless  he  gives  me  all  in  change, 

I  forfeit  all  things  by  him  : 
The  risk  is  terrible  and  strange  — 

I  tremble,  doubt,  .  .  .  deny  him. 

x. 

"  He  's  sweetest  friend,  or  hardest  foe, 

Best  angel,  or  worst  devil  ; 
I  either  hate  or  .  .  .  love  him  so, 

I  can't  be  merely  civil  ! 

XI. 

"  You  trust  a  woman  who  puts  forth 
Her  blossoms  thick  as  summer's  ? 

You  think  she  dreams  what  love  is  worth, 
Who  casts  it  to  new-comers  ? 

XII. 

"  Such  love  's  a  cowslip-ball  to  fling, 

A  moment's  pretty  pastime  ; 
I  give  ...  all  me,  if  anything, 

The  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

XIII. 

"  Dear  neighbor  of  the  trellised  house, 

A  man  should  murmur  never, 

Though  treated  worse  than  dog  and  mouse, 

Till  doted  on  forever  !  " 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


A   WOMAN'S   QUESTION. 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 

Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 
Before  I  let  thy  future  give 

Color  and  form  to  mine, 
Before  1  peril  all  for  thee, 
Question  thy  soul  to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shallow  of  regret  : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  past 

Thai  holds  thy  spirit  ye1  .' 
Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free 
As  that  which  I  can  pledge  to  thee  ? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams 

A  possible  future  shine, 
Wherein  thy  life  could  henreforth  breathe, 

Untouched,  unshared  by  mine  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost, 
0,  tell  me  before  all  is  lost  I 

Look  deeper  still  :  if  thou  canst  feel, 
Within  thy  inmost  .soul, 


That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back, 

While  I  have  staked  the  whole, 
Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow, 
But  in  true  mercy  tell  me  so. 

Is  there  -within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still  1 
Speak  now,  lest  at  some  future  day 
My  whole  life  wither  and  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

The  demon-spirit,  change, 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 

On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone,  — 
But  shield  my  heart  against  thine  own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day 

And  answer  to  my  claim, 
That  fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake,  — 

Not  thou,  —  had  been  to  blame  ? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus  ;  but  thou 
Wilt  surely  warn  and  save  me  now. 

Nay,  answer  not,  —  I  dare  not  hear, 
The  words  would  come  too  late  ; 

Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 
So  comfort  thee,  my  fate  : 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall, 

Keniember,  I  would  risk  it  all  ! 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 


THE   LADY'S    "YES." 

"Yes,"  I  answered  you  last  night  ; 

"No,"  this  morning,  sir,  I  say. 
Colors  seen  by  candle-light 

Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

When  the  viols  played  their  best, 

Lamps  above,  and  laughs  below, 
Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest, 

Fit  for  yes  or  fit  for  no. 

Call  me  false  or  call  me  free, 

Vow,  whatever  light  may  shims, 

No  man  cm  your  face  shall  see 
Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both  ; 

Time  to  dance  is  nol  to  woo  ; 
Wooing  lighl  makes  fickle  troth. 

Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you. 

Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 
Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high, 

Bravely,  as  for  life  ami  death, 
With  a  loyal  gravity. 


m~ 


& 


a- 


04 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


-^ 


Lead  her  from  the  festive  hoards, 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies, 

Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words, 
Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true, 
Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore  ; 

And  her  yes,  once  said  to  you, 
Shall  be  Yes  forevermore. 

Elizabeth  Barrett.  Browning. 


LOVE'S   SILENCE. 

Because  I  breathe  not  love  to  everie  one, 
Nor  do  not  use  set  colors  for  to  weare, 
Nor  nourish  special  locks  of  vowed  haire, 

Nor  give  each  speech  a  full  point  of  a  groane,  — 

The  courtlie  nymphs,  acquainted  with  the  moane 
Of  them  who  on  their  lips  Love's  standard  beare, 
"  What !  he  ? "  say  they  of  me.     "  Now  I  dare 
s  we  are 

He  cannot  love  :  No,  no  !  let  him  alone." 

And  think  so  still,  —  if  Stella  know  my  minde. 

Profess,  indeed,  I  do  not  Cupid's  art ; 

But  you,  faire  maids,  at  length  this  true  shall 

finde,  — 

That  his  right  badge  is  but  worne  in  the  hearte. 

Dumb  swans,   not  chattering  pies,   do  lovers 

prove  : 

They  love  indeed  who  quake  to  say  they  love. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


THE   MAID'S   REMONSTRANCE. 

Never  wedding,  ever  wooing, 
Still  a  love-lorn  heart  pursuing, 
Read  you  not  the  wrong  you  're  doing 

In  my  cheek's  pale  hue  ? 
All  my  life  with  sorrow  strewing, 

Wed,  or  cease  to  woo. 

Rivals  banished,  bosoms  plighted, 
Still  our  days  are  disunited  ; 
Now  the  lamp  of  hope  is  lighted, 

Now  half  quenched  appears, 
Damped  and  wavering  and  benighted 

Midst  my  sighs  and  tears. 

Charms  you  call  your  dearest  blessing, 

Lips  that  thrill  at  your  caressing, 

Eyes  a  mutual  soul  confessing, 

Soon  you  '11  make  them  grow 

Dim,  and  worthless  your  possessing, 

Not  with  age,  but  woe  ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


GIVE   ME   MORE    LOVE   OR    MORE 
DISDAIN. 

Give  me  more  love  or  more  disdain  ; 

The  torrid  or  the  frozen  zone 
Brings  equal  ease  unto  my  pain  ; 

The  temperate  affords  me  none  ; 
Either  extreme,  of  love  or  hate, 
Is  sweeter  than  a  calm  estate. 

Give  me  a  storm  ;  if  it  be  love, 
Like  Danae  in  a  golden  shower, 

I  swim  in  pleasure  ;  if  it  prove 
Disdain,  that  torrent  will  devour 

My  vulture  hopes  ;  and  he  's  possessed 

Of  heaven  that 's  but  from  hell  released  ; 

Then  crown  my  joys,  or  cure  my  pain  ; 

Give  me  more  love  or  more  disdain. 

Thomas  Carew. 


LOVE   DISSEMBLED. 


FROM    "AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him  ; 
'T  is  but  a  peevish  boy  :  —  yet  he  talks  well ;  — 
But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  —  yet  words  do  well, 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
But,  sure,  he 's  proud  ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes 

him  : 
He  '11  make  a  proper  man  :  The  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion  ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he 's  tall ; 
His  leg  is  but  so  so  ;  and  yet  't  is  well : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip, 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 
Than  that  mixed  in  his  cheek  ;  't  was  just  the 

difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red,  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  marked 

him 

In  parcels,  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 

To  fall  in  love  with  him  :  but,  for  my  part, 

I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not ;  and  yet 

I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him  : 

For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 

He  said  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black ; 

And,  now  I  am  remembered,  scorned  at  me  : 

I  marvel,  why  I  answered  not  again  : 

But  that 's  all  one  ;  omittance  is  no  quittance. 

Shakespeare. 


THE   SHEPHERD'S   RESOLUTION. 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman 's  fair  ? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 


tQ- 


T? 


LOVE. 


-a 


G5 


Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 

Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ? 

Or  a  well-disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder  than 

The  turtle-dove  or  pelican, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  ? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or,  her  well  deservings  known, 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  best, 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 
Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 
That  without  them  dare  to  woo  ; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be  ? 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair  : 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe,  — 
1  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  ran  scorn  and  let  her  go  ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 

George  Wither. 


LET   NOT   WOMAN   E'ER   COMPLAIN. 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 

Of  inconstancy  in  love  ; 
Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 

Fickle  man  is  apl  to  rove  ; 
Look  abroad  through  Nature's  range, 
Nature's  mighty  law  is  change  ; 
Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange 

Man  should  then  a  monster  prove  ? 

Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies; 

Ocean's  ebb  and  ocean's  flow  ; 
Sun  and  i m  bu1  set  to  rise, 

Round  and  round  the  seasons  go. 
5 


Why  then  ask  of  silly  man, 
To  oppose  great  Nature's  plan  ? 
We  '11  be  constant  while  we  can,  — 
You  can  be  no  more,  you  know. 

Robert  Burns. 


ROSALIND'S   COMPLAINT. 

Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck  his  sweet ; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet ; 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast, 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest  : 

Ah  !  wanton,  will  you  ? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  pierceth  he 

With  pretty  slight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee, 

The  livelong  night ; 
Strike  I  the  lute,  he  tunes  the  string, 
He  music  plays,  if  I  but  sing : 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 
Yet  cruel,  he  my  heart  doth  sting  : 

Ah  !  wanton,  will  you  ? 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence, 
And  bind  you  when  you  long  to  play, 

For  your  offence  ; 
I  '11  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  you  in, 
I  '11  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin, 
I  '11  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin, 
Alas  !  what  hereby  shall  I  win 

If  he  gainsay  me  ! 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod, 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy 

Because  a  god ; 
Then  sit  thou  softly  on  my  knee, 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be  ; 
Lurk  in  my  eyes,  I  like  of  thee, 
O  Cupid  !  so  thou  pity  me  ; 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee. 

Thomas  Lodge. 


CUPID   AND   CAMPASPE. 

CuriD  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses,  —  Cupid  paid  ; 

lie  stakes  Ins  quiver,  bow  and  arrows, 

Eis  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows, — 

hoses  them   too  ;    theil  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 


-ff 


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66 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


e 


Growing  on  's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how)  ; 
With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 
And  then  the  dimple  of  Ms  chin,  — 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 
At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes  ; 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 
0  Love  !  has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 
What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me  ? 

JOHN  LYLY. 


CUPID   SWALLOWED. 

T'  other  day,  as  I  was  twining 

Roses  for  a  crown  to  dine  in, 

What,  of  all  things,  midst  the  heap, 

Should  1  light  on,  fast  asleep, 

But  the  little  desperate  elf, 

The  tiny  traitor,  —  Love  himself  ! 

By  the  wings  I  pinched  him  up 

Like  a  bee,  and  in  a  cup 

Of  my  wine  I  plunged  and  sank  him  ; 

And  what  d'  ye  think  I  did  ?  —  I  drank  him  ! 

Faith,  I  thought  him  dead.     Not  he  ! 

There  he  lives  with  tenfold  glee  ; 

And  now  this  moment,  with  his  wings 

I  feel  him  tickling  my  heart-strings. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


LOVE   AND   TIME. 

Two  pilgrims  from  the  distant  plain 
Come  quickly  o'er  the  mossy  ground. 

One  is  a  boy,  with  locks  of  gold 

Thick  curling  round  his  face  so  fair  ; 

The  other  pilgrim,  stern  and  old, 
Has  snowy  beard  and  silver  hair. 

The  youth  with  many  a  merry  trick 

Goes  singing  on  his  careless  way ; 
His  old  companion  walks  as  quick, 

But  speaks  no  word  by  night  or  day. 
Where'er  the  old  man  treads,  the  grass 

Fast  fadeth  with  a  certain  doom ; 
But  where  the  beauteous  boy  doth  pass 

Unnumbered  flowers  are  seen  to  bloom. 

And  thus  before  the  sage,  the  boy 

Trips  lightly  o'er  the  blooming  lands, 
And  proudly  bears  a  pretty  toy,  — 

A  crystal  glass  with  diamond  sands. 
A  smile  o'er  any  brow  would  pass 

To  see  him  frolic  in  the  sun,  — 
To  see  him  shake  the  crystal  glass, 

And  make  the  sands  more  quickly  run. 

And  now  they  leap  the  streamlet  o'er, 
A  silver  thread  so  white  and  thin, 

And  now  they  reach  the  open  door, 
And  now  they  lightly  enter  in  : 


"  God  save  all  here,"  —  that  kind  wish  flies 
Still  sweeter  from  his  lips  so  sweet ; 

"  God  save  you  kindly,"  Norah  cries, 
"Sit  down,  my  child,  and  rest  and  eat." 

"Thanks,  gentle  Norah,  fair  and  good, 

We  '11  rest  awhile  our  weary  feet ; 
But  though  this  old  man  needeth  food, 

There  's  nothing  here  that*  he  can  eat. 
His  taste  is  strange,  he  eats  alone, 

Beneath  some  ruined  cloister's  cope, 
Or  on  some  tottering  turret's  stone, 

While  I  can  only  live  on  —  Hope  ! 

"A  week  ago,  ere  you  were  wed,  — 

It  was  the  very  night  before,  — 
Upon  so  many  sweets  I  fed 

While  passing  by  your  mother's  door,  — 
It  was  that  dear,  delicious  hour 

When  Owen  here  the  nosegay  brought, 
And  found  you  in  the  woodbine  bower,  — 

Since  then,  indeed,  I  've  needed  naught." 

A  blush  steals  over  Norah's  face, 

A  smile  comes  over  Owen's  brow, 
A  tranquil  joy  illumes  the  place, 

As  if  the  moon  were  shining  now  ; 
The  boy  beholds  the  pleasing  pain, 

The  sweet  confusion  he  has  done, 
And  shakes  the  crystal  glass  again, 

And  makes  the  sands  more  quickly  run. 

"Dear  Norah,  we  are  pilgrims,  bound 

Upon  an  endless  path  sublime  ; 
We  pace  the  green  earth  round  and  round, 

And  mortals  call  us  Love  and  Time  ; 
He  seeks  the  many,  I  the  few  ; 

I  dwell  with  peasants,  he  with  kings. 
We  seldom  meet ;  but  when  we  do, 

I  take  his  glass,  and  he  my  wings. 

"  And  thus  together  on  we  go, 

Where'er  I  chance  or  wish  to  lead  ; 
And  Time,  whose  lonely  steps  are  slow, 

Now  sweeps  along  with  lightning  speed. 
Now  on  our  bright  predestined  way 

We  must  to  other  regions  pass  ; 
But  take  this  gift,  and  night  and  day 

Look  well  upon  its  truthful  glass. 

"  How  quick  or  slow  the  bright  sands  fall 

Is  hid  from  lovers'  eyes  alone, 
If  you  can  see  them  move  at  all, 

Be  sure  your  heart  has  colder  grown. 
'T  is  coldness  makes  the  glass  grow  dry, 

The  icy  hand,  the  freezing  brow  ; 
But  warm  the  heart  and  breathe  the  sigh, 

And  then  they  '11  pass  you  know  not  how.' 


tfi- 


f 


LOVE-LETTERS     IX     FLOWERS 


"  An  exquisite  invention  this, 
Worthy  of  Love's  most  honeyed  kiss,  — 
This  art  of  writing  billet-doux 
In  buds,  and  odors,  and  bright  hues'.    ' 


LOVE. 


-- -R 


a 


e; 


She  took  the  glass  where  Love's  warm  hands 

A  bright  impervious  vapor  cast, 
She  looks,  but  cannot  see  the  sands, 

Although  she  feels  they  're  falling  fast. 
But  cold  hours  came,  and  then,  alas  ! 

She  saw  them  falling  frozen  through, 
Till  Love's  warm  light  suffused  the  glass, 

And  hid  the  loos'ning  sands  from  view  ! 

Denis  Florence  MacCarthy. 


DEATH   AND   CUPID. 

Ah  !  who  but  oft  hath  marvelled  why 

The  gods,  who  rule  above, 
Should  e'er  permit  the  young  to  die, 

The  old  to  fall  in  love  ? 

Ah  !  why  should  hapless  human  kind 
Be  punished  out  of  season  ?  — 

Pray  Listen,  and  perhaps  you  '11  find 
My  rhyme  may  give  the  reason. 

Death,  strolling  out  one  summer's  day, 
Met  Cupid,  with  his  sparrows  ; 

And,  bantering  in  a  merry  way, 
Proposed  a  change  of  arrows. 

"Agreed  !  "  quoth  Cupid.      "  I  foresee 

The  queerest  game  of  errors  ; 
For  you  the  King  of  Hearts  will  be, 

And  I  '11  be  King  of  Terrors  !  " 

And  so  't  was  done  ;  —  alas,  the  day 
That  multiplied  their  arts  !  — 

Each  from  the  other  bore  away 
A  portion  of  his  darts. 

And  that  explains  the  reason  why, 

Despite  the  gods  above, 
The  young  are  often  doomed  to  die, 

The  old  to  fall  in  love  ! 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE. 


LOVE-LETTERS   MADE   OF   FLOWERS. 

An  exquisite  invention  this, 

Worthy  of  Love's  most  honeyed  kiss,  — 

This  art  of  writing  billet-doux 

In  buds,  and  odors,  and  1  night  hues  ! 

In  raying  all  one  feels  and  thinks 

In  clever  daffodils  and  pinks  ; 

In  puns  of  tulips  ;  and  in  phrases, 

Charming  for  their  truth,  of  daisies  ; 
I  btering,  as  well  as  Bilenoe  may, 

The  sweetest  words  the  sweetest  way. 
How  fit  too  for  the  lady's  bosom  ! 
Tin'  place  where  bil/rf-duv.r  repose  'em. 


What  delight  in  some  sweet  spot 

Combining  love  with  garden  plot, 

At  once  to  cultivate  one's  flowers 

And  one's  epistolary  powers  ! 

Growing  one's  own  choice  words  and  fancies 

In  orange  tubs,  and  beds  of  pansies  ; 

One's  sighs,  and  passionate  declarations, 

In  odorous  rhetoric  of  carnations  ; 

Seeing  how  far  one's  stocks  will  reach, 

Taking  due  care  one's  flowers  of  speech 

To  guard  from  blight  as  well  as  bathos, 

And  watering  every  day  one's  pathos  ! 

A  letter  comes,  just  gathered.     We 

Dote  on  its  tender  brilliancy, 

Inhale  its  delicate  expressions 

Of  balm  and  pea,  and  its  confessions 

Made  with  as  sweet  a  maiden's  bhcsh 

As  ever  morn  bedewed  on  bush  : 

('T  is  in  reply  to  one  of  ours, 

Made  of  the  most  convincing  flowers.) 

Then,  after  we  have  kissed  its  wit, 

And  heart,  in  water  putting  it 

(To  keep  its  remarks  fresh),  go  round 

Our  little  eloquent  plot  of  ground, 

And  with  enchanted  hands  compose 

Our  answer,  - —  all  of  lily  and  rose, 

Of  tuberose  and  of  violet, 

And  little  darling  (mignonette)  ; 

Of  look  at  me  and  call  me  to  you 

(Words,  that  while  they  greet,  go  through  you)  ; 

Of  thoughts,  of  flames,  forget-me-not,  / 

Bridcwort,  —  in  short,  the  whole  blest  lot 

Of  vouchers  for  a  lifelong  kiss,  — 

And  literally,  breathing  bliss  ! 

Leigh  Hunt. 


THE   BIRTH   OF   PORTRAITURE. 

As  once  a  Grecian  maiden  wove 

Her  garland  mid  the  summer  bowers, 
There  stood  a  youth,  with  eyes  of  love, 

To  watch  her  while  she  wreathed  the  flowers. 
The  youth  was  skilled  in  painting's  art, 

But  ne'er  had  studied  woman's  brow, 
Nor  knew  what  magic  hues  the  heart 

Can  shed  o'er  Nature's  charm,  till  now. 

CHOBTJS. 

Blest  be  Love,  to  whom  we  owe 
All  that 's  fair  and  bright  below. 

His  hand  had  pictured  many  a  rose, 

And  sketched  the  rays  that  lit   the  brook; 
Bu1    what    were  these,   or  what   Were  those, 

To  woman's  hhisli,  to  woman's  Look  ' 
"  Oil  '  if  siieh  magic  power  there  he. 
This,  this,"  he  died,  "is  all  my  prayer, 


ff 


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POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


To  paint  thai  living  light  I  see, 

And  tix  the  soul  that  sparkles  there." 

His  prayer  as  soon  as  breathed  was  heard  ; 

His  pallet  touched  by  Love  grew  warm, 
And  painting  saw  her  tbus  transferred 

Finn  lifeless  (lowers  to  woman's  form. 
Still,  as  from  tint  to  tint  he  stole, 

The  fair  design  shone  out  the  more, 
And  there  was  now  a  life,  a  soul, 

Where  oidy  colors  glowed  before. 

Then  first  carnation  learned  to  speak, 

And  lilies  into  life  were  brought  ; 
While  mantling  on  the  maiden's  cheek, 

Young  roses  kindled  into  thought  : 
Then  hyacinths  their  darkest  dyes 

l'|ion  the  locks  of  beauty  threw  ; 
And  violets  transformed  to  eyes, 

Inshrined  a  soul  within  their  blue. 

CHORUS. 

Blest  be  Love,  to  whom  we  owe 

All  that 's  bright  and  fair  below  ; 

Song  was  cold  and  painting  dim, 

Till  song  and  painting  learned  from  him. 

Thomas  Moore. 


UP  !    QUIT   THY   BOWER. 

Up  !  quit  thy  bower  !    late  wears  the  hour, 
Long  have  the  rooks  cawed  round  the  tower  ; 
O'er  flower  and  tree  loud  hums  the  bee, 
And  the  wild  kid  sports  merrily. 
The  sun  is  bright,  the  sky  is  clear  ; 
Wake,  lady,  wake  !  and  hasten  here. 

Up,  maiden  fair  !  and  bind  thy  hair, 

And  rouse  thee  in  the  breezy  air  ! 

The  lulling  stream  that  soothed  thy  dream 

Is  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam. 

Waste  not  these  hours,  so  fresh,  so  gay  : 

Leave  thy  soft  couch,  and  haste  away  ! 

Up  !     Time  will  tell  the  morning  bell 
Its  service-sound  has  chimed  well  ; 
The  aged  crone  keeps  house  alone, 
The  reapers  to  tin;  fields  are  pone. 
Lose  not  these  hours,  so  cool,  so  gay  : 
Lo  !  while  thou  sleep'st  they  haste  away  ! 

Joanna  Baillie. 


FOR  LOVE'S   SWEET  SAKE. 

Awake  !  —  the  starry  midnight  hour 

Hangs  charmed,  and  pauseth  in  its  flight  ; 
In  its  own  sweetness  sleeps  the  flower, 
And  the  doves  lie  hushed  in  deep  delight. 
Awake  !  awake  ! 
Look  forth,  my  love,  for  Love's  sweet  sake  | 


Awake  !  —  soft  dews  will  soon  arise 

From  daisied  mead  and  thorny  brake  : 
Then,  sweet,  uncloud  those  eastern  eyes, 
And  like  the  tender  morning  break  ! 
Awake  !  awake  ! 
Dawn  forth,  my  love,  for  Love's  sweet  sake  ! 

Awake  ! — within  the  musk-rose  bower 
I  watch,  pale  flower  of  love,  for  thee. 
Ah,  come  !  and  show  the  starry  hour 

What  wealth  of  love  thou  hid'st  from  me  ! 
Awake  !  awake  ! 
Show  all  thy  love,  for  Love's  sweet  sake  ! 

Awake  !  —  ne'er  heed  though  listening  night 
Steal  music  from  thy  silver  voice  ; 

Uncloud  thy  beauty,  rare  and  bright, 

And  bid  the  world  and  me  rejoice  !• 

Awake  !  awake  !  — 

She  comes  at  last,  for  Love's  sweet  sake. 

Barry  Cornwall. 


INVOCATION   TO  THE  ANGEL. 

FROM    "HEAVEN    AND    EARTH." 

Samiasa  ! 
I  call  thee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  thee ; 

Many  may  worship  thee,  that  will  I  not ; 
If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee, 
Descend  and  share  my  lot  ! 
Though  I  be  formed  of  clay, 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 
On  Eden's  streams, 
Thine  immortality  cannot  repay 

With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.     There  is  a  ray 

In  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to  shine, 
.    I  feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God's  and  thine. 
It  may  be  hidden  long  :  death  and  decay 

Our  mother  Eve  bequeathed  us,  but  my  heart 
Defies  it ;  though  this  life  must  pass  away, 
Is  that  a  cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part  ? 
Thou  art  immortal  ;  so  am  I  :  I  feel  — 

I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peal, 

Like,  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 
Into  my  ears  this  truth,  —  "Thou  liv'st  forever  ! " 

Byron 


FLY   TO   THE   DESEET,  FLY   WITH   ME. 

SONG  OF  NOURMAHAL  IN   "THE  LIGHT  OF  THE   HAREM." 

"  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 

Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 

But  oh  !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt 

Of  tents  with  love  or  thrones  without  ? 


t& 


r 


LOVE. 


■-a 


G(J 


"  Our  rocks  are  rough,  bul  smiling  there 
Th'  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  ami  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

"  Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 
The  silvery-footed  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

"  Then  come,  — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree, 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

"  Oh  !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought  ; 

"  AjS  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  lie  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  as  then  ! 

"So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone  ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years  ! 

"  Then  fly  with  me,  if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  thou  hadst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 

"  Come,  if  the  love  I  hou  hast  for  me 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee,  — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  underground, 
When  first  't  is  by  the  lapwing  found. 

"  Bui  if  fur  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
ilei  worshipped  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruined  place  ; 

"Then,  fare  thee  well  !—  I  M  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 

Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine  !  " 

There  was  a  pathos  in  tins  lay, 
Thai  even  without  enchantment's  art 

Would  instantly  have  found  its  way 

Deep  into  Selim's  burning  heart  ; 
But  breathing,  as  it  did,  »  tone 

To  earthly  lutes  and  lips  unknown  ; 
With  every  chord  fresh  from  the  touch 
Of  music's  spirit,  't  was  too  much  \ 

Starting,  he  dashed  away  the  cup,  — 

Which,  all  the  time  of  this  sweet  air, 
His  hand  had  held,  untasted,  up, 


As  if  't  were  fixed  by  magic  there,  — 
And  naming  her,  so  long  unnamed, 
So  long  unseen,  wildly  exclaimed, 
"  0  Nourmahal  !  0  Nourmahal  ! 

Hadst  thou  but  sung  this  witching  strain, 
I  could  forget  —  forgive  thee  all, 

And  never  leave  those  eyes  again." 

The  mask  is  off,  — the  charm  is  wrought,  - 
And  Selim  to  his  heart  has  caught, 
In  blushes,  more  than  ever  bright, 
His  Nourmahal,  his  Harem's  Light  ! 
And  well  do  vanished  frowns  enhance 
The  charm  of  every  brightened  glance  ; 
And  dearer  seems  each  dawning  smile 
For  having  lost  its  light  awhile  ; 
And,  happier  now  for  all  her  sighs, 

As  on  his  arm  her  head  reposes, 
She  whispers  him,  with  laughing  eyes, 

"Remember,  love,  the  Feast  of  Roses  !" 

Thomas  Moore. 


COME   INTO   THE   GARDEN,  MAUD. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown  ! 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  arc  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves, 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky,  — 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  its  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 
The  Hub',    violin,   bassoon  ; 

All  night  has  the  casemenl  jessamine  stirred 
To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune,  — 

Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 
And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heurt   to  be  g.i\  . 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  i  citing  moon  are  gone. 

And  half  to  the  i  i  ing  daj  ; 
Low  on  the  Band  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last    wheel   echoes  away. 
I  said  to  the  rose,    "The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

(>  young  lord-lover,   what   sighs  are  the 

For  one  thai  will  never  be  thine  j 
Bu1  mine,  but  mine,"  bo  1  sware  to  the  rose, 
"  For  e\  er  and  i  line  ! 


■ff 


ro 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall  ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all  ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs, 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet, 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk -bloom  on  the  tree  ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither  !  the  dances  are  done  ; 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

Slu>  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ! 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is  near"  ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late  "  ; 
Tin-  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear"  ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet  ! 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthly  bed  ; 
My  'lust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE   YOUNG   MAY   MOON. 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love, 
The  glowworm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love, 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Moma's  grove, 
While  the  drowsy  world  i-;  dreaming,  love  ! 
Thi  n  awake  ! — theheavens  look  bright,  my  dear ! 
'T  is  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear  .' 


And  the  best  of  all  ways 
To  lengthen  our  days 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear  ! 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love, 

But  the  sage,  his  star-watch  keeping,  love, 

And  1,  whose  star, 

More  glorious  far, 
Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake  !  —  till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  sage's  glass  we  '11  shun,  my  dear, 

Or,  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light, 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear  ! 

THOMAS   MOORE. 


AH,    SWEET   KITTY  NEIL! 

"  Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil  !  rise  up  from  your  wheel, 
Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from  spin- 
ning ; 
Come,  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore-tree  ; 
Half  the  parish  is   there,    and  the   dance  is 
beginning. 
The  sun  is  gone  down  ;  but  the  full  harvest  moon 
Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew-whitened 
valley  ; 
While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft,  loving  things 
Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green  shadedalley." 

With   a   blush  and  a  smile,  Kitty  rose  up  the 
while, 
Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her  hair, 
glancing ; 
'T  is  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover  sires, 
So  she  could  n't  but  choose  to  —  go  off  to  the 
dancing. 
And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  groups  are  seen,  — 
Each  gay-hearted  lad  with  the  lass  of  his  choos- 
ing ; 
And  Pat,  without  fail,  leads  out  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  — 
Somehow,  when  he  asked,  she  ne'er  thought 
of  refusing. 

Now  Felix  Magee  puts  his  pipes  to  his  knee, 
And,  with  nourish  so  free,  sets  each  couple  in 
motion  ; 
With  a  cheer  and  a  bound,  the  lads  patter  the 
ground, 
The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans  on  the 
ocean. 
Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose,  — feet  light  as  the  doe's, 

Now  coyly  retiring,  now  boldly  advancing  ; 
Search  the  world  all  around  from  the  sky  to  the 
ground, 
No  such  sight  can  be  found  as  an  Irish  lass 
dancing  ! 


CB- 


-B3 


Pr 


LOVE. 


7^ 


Sweet  Kate  !  who  could  view  your  bright  eyes 
of  deep  blue, 
Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark  lashes 
so  mildly, 
Your  fair-turned  arm,  heaving  breast,  rounded 
form, 
Nor  feel  his  heart  warm,  and  his  pulses  throb 
wildly  ? 
Poor  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  depart, 
Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful  yet  sweet 
love  ; 
The   sight   leaves   his   eye   as  he   cries  with  a 
sigh, 
"Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under  your 
feet,  love  !  " 


Denis  Florence  MacCarthy. 


0   NANCY,   WILT   THOU  GO   WITH  ME? 

0  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me, 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town  ? 
Can  silent  glens  have  charms  for  thee, 

The  lonely  cot  and  russet  gown  ? 
No  longer  drest  in  silken  sheen, 

No  longer  decked  with  jewels  rare, 
Say,  canst  thou  quit  each  courtly  scene 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

0  Nancy  !  when  thou  'rt  far  away, 

Wilt  thou  not  cast  a  wish  behind  ? 
Say,  canst  thou  face  the  parching  ray, 

Nor  shrink  before  the  wintry  wind  ? 
0,  can  that  soft  and  gentle  mien 

Extremes  of  hardship  learn  to  bear, 
Nor  sad  regret  each  courtly  scene 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

0  Nancy  !  canst  thou  love  so  true, 

Through  perils  keen  with  me  to  go, 
Or  when  thy  swain  mishap  shall  rue, 

To  share  with  him  the  pang  of  woe  ? 
Say,  should  disease  ot  pain  befall, 

Wilt  thou  assume  the  nurse's  care, 
Nor  wistful  those  gay  scenes  recall 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair? 

A  ml  when  at  last  thy  love  shall  die, 

Wilt  thou  i- Lve  his  parting  breath  .' 

Wilt  thou  repress  each  struggling  sigh, 

Ami  cheer  with  smiles  the  bed  of  death? 
And  will  thou  o'er  his  breathless  clay, 

Strew  flowers,  ami  drop  the  tender  tear, 
Nor  then  regret  those  scenes  so  gay 

Where  thoti  weri  fairesl  of  the  fair  ' 

I  1I"\IA  ,    Pi   Ri   y,    D.D. 


BEDOUIN   LOVE-SONG. 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee, 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee  ! 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Look  from  thy  window,  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ! 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 
With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  tlie  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  .shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  tlie  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  arc  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  tlie  Judgment 
Book  unfold .' 

Bayard  Taylor. 


COME,    REST   IN   THIS    BOSOM. 

FROM    "IRISH    MELODIES." 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 

Though  tin'  held   have  lied  from  thee,  thy   home 

is  still  here  ; 
Here  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 

And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oh!    what  was  love  made  for,  if 't  is  not  the  same 
Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory 

and  shame  ' 
I  know  not,  1  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 
I    but   know   that   I    love    thee,    whatever   thou 

ai't. 


ta~ 


# 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


"ft 


Thou  hast  called  me  thy  Angel  in  moments  of 

bliss, 
And  thy   Angel   I  '11   bex   mid   the   horrors  of 

this, 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to 

pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  —  or  perish  there 

too  ! 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


THE   WELCOME. 
I. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning  ; 
Come  when  you  're  looked  for,  or  come  without 

warning ; 
Kisses  and  welcome  you  '11  find  here  before  you, 
Andthe  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I  '11  adore 
you  ! 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted ; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than 

ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers  don't 
sever  ! " 

II. 

I  '11  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you  choose 

them  ! 
Or,  after  you  've  kissed  them,  they  '11  lie  on  my 

bosom  ; 
I  '11  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire 

you  ; 
I  '11  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire 
you. 
Oh  !  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer- 
vexed  fanner, 
Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor  ; 
I  '11  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above 

me, 
Then,  wandering,  I  '11  wish  you  in  silence  to 
love  me. 

in. 

We  '11  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the 

eyrie  ; 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the 

fairy  ; 
We  '11  look  on  the  stars,  and  we  '11  list  to  the 

river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can  give 
her. 
Oh!    she'll   whisper  you,  —  "Love,    as   un- 
changeably beaming, 
And   trust,    when   in   secret,  most  tunefully 

streaming  ; 
Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall  quiver, 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's  river." 


IV. 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning  ; 
Come  when  you  're  looked  for,  or  come  without 

warning ; 
Kisses  and  welcome  you  '11  find  here  before  you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I  'II  adore 
you  ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted  ; 

Eed  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted  ; 

The  green  of  the  trees  looksfargreenerthan  ever, 

And  the  linnats  are  singing,  "True  lovers  don't 


sever 


Thomas  Davis. 


CA'   THE  YOWES   TO   THE   KNOWES. 

CHORUS. 

Ca   the  yowes  to  the  Tcno%ves, 
Ca'  them  where  tlie  /leather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  bumie  rowes, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Hark  the  mavis'  evening  sang 
Sounding  Cluden's  woods  amang; 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 
Ca'  tlie,  &c. 

We  '11  gae  down  by  Clauden  side, 
Thro'  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 
O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 
Ca'  the,  &c. 

Yonder  Cluden's  silent  towers, 
Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 
O'er  the  dewy  bending  flowers, 
Fairies  dance  sae  cheerie. 
Ca'  the,  &c. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear  : 
Thou  'rt  to  Love  and  Heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 
Ca'  the,  &c. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 
Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart ; 
I  can  die  —  but  canna  part, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 
Ca'  tJie,  &c. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea  ; 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 
Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin'  my  e'e, 
Ye  shall  be  my  dearie. 

Ca'  tlie,  &c. 

Robert  burns. 


9 


LOVE. 


ft 


to 


WHISTLE,    AND    I'LL    COME    TO    YOU, 
MY    LAD. 

0  whistle  and  I  '11  come  to  you,  my  lad, 
0  whistle,  and  I  '11  come  to  you,  my  lad  ; 
Tho'  father  and  mither  and  a'  should  gae  mad, 
O  whistle,  and  I  '11  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

Rut  warily  tent,  when  ye  come  to  court  me, 
And  come  na  unless  the  back-yett  be  a-jee  ; 
Syne  up  the  back  stile,  and  let  naebody  see, 
And  come  as  ye  were  na'  coniin'  to  me. 
And  come,  &c. 

0  whistle,  &c. 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene'er  ye  meet  me, 
Gang  by  me  as  tho'  that  ye  cared  nae  a  flie  ; 
But  steal  me  a  blink  o'  your  bonnie  black  e'e, 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin'  at  me. 
Yet  look,  &c. 

0  whistle,  &c. 

Aye  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  me, 

And  whiles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a  wee  ; 

But  court  nae  anither,  tho'  jokin'  ye  be, 

For  fear  that  she  wile  your  fancy  frae  me. 

For  fear,  &c. 

0  whistle,  &c. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   SHEPHERD   TO   HIS   LOVE. 

Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  hills,  and  fields, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountains,  yields. 

There  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies  ; 
A  cap  i>|'  (lowers,  and  a  kirtle, 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle  ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 
Fair-lined  Blippers  for  tin-  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  puresi  gold  ; 

A  belt  <>!'  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 

With  coral  cla  p    1  amber  studs  : 

And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come,  live  witli  me,  and  he  my  love. 

'['he  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  flelight  each  May  morning, 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

CHRIST  IPH1  u  MARLOWB. 


THE   NYMPH'S   REPLY. 


If  that  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold  ; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 
And  all  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields  ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten,  — 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs,  — 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


GO,    HAPPY   ROSE. 

Go,  happy  Rose  !  and,  interwove 
With  other  flowers,  bind  my  love  ! 

Tell  her,  too,  she  must  not  be 

Longer  flowing,  longer  free, 

That  so  oft  hath  fettered  me. 

Say,  if  she's  fretful,  1  have  bands 
Of  pearl  and  gold  to  bind  her  hands  ; 
Tell  her,  if  she  struggle  still, 
1  have  myrtle  rods  at  will, 
For  to  tame,  though  not  to  kill. 

Take  then  my  blessing  thus,  and  go, 

And  tell  her  this,       hut  do  not  so  ! 

Lest  a  handsome  anger  fly, 

Like  a  lightning  from  her  eye, 

And  burn  thee  up,  as  well  as  I. 

Robert  Herrick. 


THE   GROOMSMAN   TO   HIS   MISTRESS. 


Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 
Makes  another,  soon  or  late  : 

Never  yet  was  any  marriage 


■B- 


W 


in— 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


Entered  in  the  book  of  fate, 
But  the  names  were  also  written 
Of  the  patient  pair  that  wait. 

ii. 

Blessings  then  upon  the  morning 
When  my  friend,  with  fondest  look, 

By  the  solemn  rites'  permission, 
To  himself  his  mistress  took, 

And  the  destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

in. 

While  the  priest  fulfilled  his  office, 
Still  the  ground  the  lovers  eyed, 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  bride  ; 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins 
Who  were  waiting  at  her  side. 

IV. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside  her ; 

One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair  ; 
But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other, 

Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair ; 
Neither  dark  nor  fair  I  call  her, 

Yet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 

v. 

"While  her  groomsman  —  shall  I  own  it  ? 

Yes  to  thee,  and  only  thee  — 
Ga  :ed  upon  this  dark-eyed  maiden 

Who  was  fairest  of  the  three, 
Thus  he  thought  :   ' '  How  blest  the  bridal 

Where  the  bride  were  such  as  she  ! " 

VI. 

Then  I  mused  upon  the  adage, 
Till  my  wisdom  was  perplexed, 

And  I  wondered,  as  the  churchman 
Dwelt  upon  his  holy  text, 

Which  of  all  who  heard  his  lesson 
Should  require  the  service  next. 

VII. 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion 

For  the  flowers,  the  feast,  the  wine  ? 

Thine,  perchance,  my  dearest  lady  ; 
Or,  who  knows  ?  —  it  may  be  mine, 

What  if  't  were  —  forgive  the  fancy  — 
What  if  't  were  —  both  mine  and  thine  ? 
Thomas  William  Parsons. 


MY   EYES!    HOW   I   LOVE   YOU". 

My  eyes  !  how  I  love  you, 
You  sweet  little  dove  you  ! 
There  's  no  one  above  you, 

Most  beautiful  Kitty. 


So  glossy  your  hair  is, 
Like  a  sylph's  or  a  fairy's  ; 
And  your  neck,  I  declare,  is 
Exquisitely  pretty  ! 

Quite  Grecian  your  nose  is, 
And  your  cheeks  are  like  roses, 
So  delicious  —  0  Moses  ! 

Surpassingly  sweet ! 

Not  the  beauty  of  tulips, 
Nor  the  taste  of  mint-juleps, 
Can  compare  with  your  two  lips, 
Most  beautiful  Kate  ! 

Not  the  black  eyes  of  Juno, 
Nor  Minerva's  of  blue,  no, 
Nor  Venus's,  you  know, 

Can  equal  your  own  ! 

O,  how  my  heart  prances, 
And  frolics  and  dances, 
When  its  radiant  glances 

Upon  me  are  thrown  ! 

And  now,  dearest  Kitty, 
It 's  not  very  pretty, 
Indeed  it 's  a  pity, 

To  keep  me  in  sorrow  ! 

So,  if  you  '11  but  chime  in, 

We  '11  have  done  with  our  rhymin', 

Swap  Cupid  for  Hymen, 

And  be  married  to-morrow. 

ANONYMOUSi 


RUTH. 


She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened  ;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Bound  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell,  — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; — ■ 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stobks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 


9 


LOVE. 


tfc 


75 


Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean 

Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean  ; 

Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 

Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Thomas  Hood. 


fe 


WIDOW   MACHKEE. 


Widow  machree,  it 's  no  wonder  you  frown,  — 

Och  hone  !  widow  machree  ; 
Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty  black 
gown,  — 
Och  hone  !  widow  machree. 
How  altered  your  air, 
With  that  close  cap  you  wear,  — 
'T  is  destroying  your  hair, 

Which  should  be  flowing  free  : 
Be  no  longer  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl,  — 
Och  hone  !  widow  machree  ! 

ii. 

Widow  machree,  now  the  summer  is  come,  — 

Och  hone  !  widow  machree, 
When  everything  smiles,  should  a  beauty  look 
glum  ? 
Och  hone  !  widow  machree  ! 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares  ; 
Why,  even  the  bears 

Now  in  couples  agree  ; 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  wish,  — 
Och  hone  !  widow  machree. 

in. 

Widow  machree,  and  when  winter  comes  in,  — 

Och  hone  !  widow  machree,  — 
To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a  sin, 

Och  hone  !  widow  machree. 
Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 
A  in]  tin'  kettle  sings  songs 

l'"ul]  of  family  glee  ; 
While  alone  with  your  cup 
Like  a  hermit  you  sup, 

Och  hone  !  widow  machree. 

IV. 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts  I 've 
towld,  — 
Ocli  hone  '  widow  machree,  — 
But  you  're  keeping  some  pour  fellow  out  in  the 
cowld, 
<  >ch  hone  !  widow  machree  I 
With  such  sins  on  your  head, 
Sure  youi  peace  would  be  fled  ; 


Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 

Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 
That  woidd  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying  "  Och  hone  !  widow  machree  !  " 


Then  take  my  advice,  darling  widow  machree,  — 

Och  hone  !  widow  machree,  — 
And  with  my  advice,  faith,  I  wish  you  'dtake  me, 
Och  hone  !  widow  machree  ! 
You'd  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  stir  up  the  fire  ; 
And  sure  hope  is  no  liar 
In  whispering  to  me, 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart 
When  you  'd  me  near  your  heart,  — 
Och  hone  !  widow  machree  ! 

Samuel  lover. 


MAUD    MULLER. 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Baked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock -bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast,  — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow,  across  the  road. 

She  stoop,., 1  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 

And  Idled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 

On  her  feel  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"Thanks  '  "  said  the  Judge,  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  (piaffed." 


He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees. 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 


-d? 


r& 


76 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTION'S. 


Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles,  bare  and  brown, 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  :    "  Ah  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

' '  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat, 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still : 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay. 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle,  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health,  and  cpiiet,  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sister,  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  lie  hummed  in  court  an  old  love  tune  ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  tin:  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  ; 


And  sweet  Maud  Muller' s  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead, 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms  ; 

And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a  secret  pain, 
' '  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! 

' '  Free  as  when  1  rode  that  day 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  the  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  child-birth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 

And,  gazing  down  with  a  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls  ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned  ; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall  : 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  :   "It  might  have  been  !  " 

Ah,  well  !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 

Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  ! 

John  greenleaf  Whittier. 


tB- 


■ff 


a- 


LOVE. 


77 


QUAKERDOM. 

THE    FORMAL   CALL. 

Through  her  forced,  abnormal  quiet 
Flashed  the  soul  of  frolic  riot, 
And  a  most  malicious  laughter  lighted  up  her 
downcast  eyes  ; 
All  in  vain  I  tried  each  topic, 
Ranged  from  polar  climes  to  tropic,  — - 
Every  commonplace  I  started  met  with  yes-or- 
no  replies. 

For  her  mother  —  stiff  and  stately, 
As  if  starched  and  ironed  lately  — ■ 
Sat  erect,  with  rigid  elbows  bedded  thus  in  curv- 
ing palms  ; 
There  she  sat  on  guard  before  us, 
And  in  words  precise,  decorous, 
And  most  calm,  reviewed  the  weather,  and  recited 
several  psalms. 

How  without  abruptly  ending 

This  my  visit,  and  offending 
Wealthy  neighbors,  was  the  problem  which  em- 
ployed my  mental  care  ; 

When  the  butler,  bowing  lowly, 

Uttered  clearly,  stiffly,  slowly, 
"Madam,  please,  the  gardener  wants  you,"  — 

Heaven,  I  thought,  has  heard  my  prayer. 

"  Pardon  me  !  "  she  grandly  uttered  ; 
Bowing  low,  I  gladly  muttered, 
"Surely,  madam  !"  and,  relieved,  I  turned  to 
scan  the  daughter's  face  : 
Ha  !  what  pent-up  mirth  outflashes 
From  beneath  those  pencilled  lashes  ! 
How  the  drill  of  Quaker  custom  yields  to  Na- 
ture's brilliant  grace. 

Brightly  springs  the  prisoned  fountain 
From  the  side  of  Delphi's  mountain 
When  the  stone  that  weighed  upon  its  buoyant 
life  is  thrust  aside  ; 
So  the  long-enforced  stagnation 
Of  the  maiden's  conversation 
Now  imparted    live-fold  brilliance  to  its   ever- 
varying  tide. 

Widely  ranging,  quickly  changing, 
Witty,  winning,  from  beguiling 
Unto  end  I    listened,  merely  flinging  in  a  casual 
word  ; 
Eloquent,  and  yel  how  simple  ! 
Hand  and  eye,  and  eddying  dimple, 
Tongue  and  lip  together  made  a  music  seen  as 
well  as  heard. 


When  the  noonday  woods  are  ringing, 

All  the  birds  of  summer  singing, 
Suddenly  there  falls  a  silence,  and  we  know  a 

•    serpent  nigh  : 

So  upon  the  door  a  rattle 

Stopped  our  animated  tattle, 

And  the  stately  mother  found  us  prim  enough  tc 

suit  her  eye. 

Charles  G.  Halpine 


THE   CHESS-BOARD. 

My  little  love,  do  you  remember, 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  December, 
Curtained  warm  from  the  snowy  weather, 
When  you  and  I  played  chess  together, 
Checkmated  by  each  other's  eyes  ? 

Ah  !  still  I  see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm  o'er  Queen  and  Knight ; 

Brave  Pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand ; 
The  double  Castles  guard  the  wings  ; 
The  Bishop,  bent  on  distant  things, 
Moves,  sidling,  through  the  fight. 

Our  fingers  touch  ;  our  glances  meet, 
And  falter  ;  falls  your  golden  hair 

Against  my  cheek  ;  your  bosom  sweet 
Is  heaving.  Down  the  field,  your  Queen 
Rides  slow,  her  soldiery  all  between, 

And  checks  me  unaware. 

Ah  me  !  the  little  battle  's  done  : 
Disperst  is  all  its  chivalry. 
Full  many  a  move  since  then  have  we 
Mid  life's  perplexing  checkers  made, 
And  many  a  game  with  fortune  played  ; 

What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 

This,  this  at  least,  —  if  this  alone  : 

That  never,  never,  nevermore, 

As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore, 

(Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise,) 

Can  you  and  I  shut  out  the  skies, 

Shut  out  the  world  and  wintry  weather, 

And  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with  eyes, 

Play  chess,  as  then  we  played  together. 

Robert  Bulwek  i.vi  i    \. 


WHEN  YOUR  BEAUTY  APPEARS. 

"WHEN  your  beauty  appears, 
In  its  graces  and  airs, 
All  bright  as  an  angel  new  dropl  from  the  skies 
At  distance  I  gaze,  and  am  awed  by  my  fears, 

So  strangely  you  dazzle  my  eyes  ! 


m- 


--S1 


lb 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


V 


But  when  without  art 
Your  kind  thoughts  you  impart, 
"When  your  love  runs  in  blushes  through  every 

vein, 
When  it  darts  from  your  eyes,  when  it  pants 

at  your  heart, 
Then  I  know  that  you're  woman  again." 

"  There  's  a  passion  and  pride 
In  our  sex,"  she  replied  ; 
"  And  thus  (might  I  gratify  both)  I  would  do,  — 
Still  an  angel  appear  to  each  lover  beside, 
But  still  be  a  woman  for  you." 

THOMAS  PARNELL. 


THE   FIRST   KISS. 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 
Of  a  kiss  at  love's  beginning, 
"When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing 
For 'the  knot  there  's  no  untying. 

Yet  remember,  midst  your  wooing, 
Love  has  bliss,  but  love  has  ruing  ; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle, 
Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  he  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries, 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries,  — ■ 
Longest  stays  when  sorest  chidden, 
Laughs  and  flies  when  pressed  and  bidden. 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly, 
Bind  its  odor  to  the  lily, 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver,  — 
Then  bind  Love  to  last  forever  ! 

Love 's  a  fire  that  needs  renewal 

Of  fresh  beauty  for  its  fuel ; 

Love's  wing  moults  when  caged  and  captured,  — 

Only  free  he  soars  enraptured. 

Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging, 
Or  the  ring-dove's  neck  from  changing  ? 
No  !  nor  fettered  Love  from  dying 
In  the  knot  there  's  no  untying. 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


KISS   ME   SOFTLY. 

Da  me  basia.  —  Catullus. 
I. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low,  - 
Malice  has  ever  a  vigilant  ear  : 
What  if  Malice  were  lurking  near  ? 
Kiss  me,  dear ! 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 


ii. 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low,  — ■ 
Envy  too  has  a  watchful  ear  : 
What  if  Envy  should  chance  to  hear  ? 
Kiss  me,  dear  ! 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

in. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low  : 

Trust  me,  darling,  the  time  is  near 

When  lovers  may  love  with  never  a  fear,  - 

Kiss  me,  dear  ! 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


SLY  THOUGHTS. 

"  I  SAW  him  kiss  your  cheek  !  "  — ■ 

"'Tis  true." 

"  0  Modesty  !  "  —  "  'T  was  strictly  kept : 

He  thought  me  asleep  ;  at  least,  I  knew 

He  thought  I  thought  he  thought  I  slept." 

Coventry  Patmore. 


THE   KISS. 

1.  Among  thy  fancies  tell  me  this  : 
What  is  the  thing  we  call  a  kiss  ?  — 

2.  I  shall  resolve  ye  what  it  is  : 

It  is  a  creature  born  and  bred 
Between  the  lips  all  cherry  red, 
By  love  and  warm  desires  fed  ; 
Chor.    And  makes  more  soft  the  bridal  bed. 

It  is  an  active  flame,  that  flies 
First  to  the  babies  of  the  eyes, 
And  charms  them  there  with  lullabies  ; 
Chor.    And  stills  the  bride  too  when  she  cries. 

Then  to  the  chin,  the  cheek,  the  ear, 
It  frisks  and  flies,  —  now  here,  now  there 
'T  is  now  far  off,  and  then  't  is  near  ; 
Chor.    And  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere. 


Chor. 


Chor. 


Has  it  a  speaking  virtue  ?  —  2.    Yes. 
How  speaks  it,  say  ? — 2.  Do  you  but  this : 
Part  your  joined  lips,  — then  speaks  your 

kiss  ; 
And  this  love's  sweetest  language  is. 

Has  it  a  body  ?  —  2.    Ay,  and  wings, 

With  thousand  rare  encolorings  ; 

And  as  it  flies  it  gently  sings  ; 

Love  honey  yields,  but  never  stings. 

Robert  herrick 


W 


•s- 


LOVE. 


79 


KISSING  'S   NO   SIN. 

Some  say  that  kissing 's  a  sin  ; 

But  I  think  it 's  nane  ava, 
For  kissing  has  wonn'd  in  this  waiid 

Since  ever  that  there  was  twa. 

0,  if  it  wasna  lawfu', 

Lawyers  wadna  allow  it ; 
If  it  wasna  holy, 

Ministers  wadna  do  it. 

If  it  wasna  modest, 

Maidens  wadna  tak'  it ; 
If  it  wasna  plenty, 


Puir  folk  wadna  get  it. 


ANONYMOUS. 


DINNA   ASK  ME. 

0,  DINNA  ask  me  gin  I  lo'e  ye  : 

Troth,  I  daurna  tell  ! 
Dinna  ask  me  gin  I  lo'e  ye,  — ■ 

Ask  it  o'  yoursel'. 

0,  dinna  look  sae  sair  at  me, 

For  weel  ye  ken  me  true  ; 
0,  gin  ye  look  sae  sair  at  me, 

I  daurna  look  at  you. 

"When  ye  gang  to  yon  hraw  braw  town, 

And  bonnier  lassies  see, 
0,  dinna,  Jamie,  look  at  them, 

Lest  ye  should  mind  na  me. 

For  I  could  never  bide  the  lass 
That  ye  'd  lo'e  mair  than  me  ; 

And  0,  I  Y    s  ire  my  heart  wad  brak, 
Gin  ye  'd  prove  fause  to  me  ! 

DUNLOP. 


COMIN'   THROUGH   THE  RYE. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  through  tin-  rye, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 
Every  lassie  Las  her  laddie, — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  I  ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Amang  the  /ruin  there  is  a  sivain 

I  dearly  lo'e  myseV  ,- 
/,'(//  whaur  his  hame,  or  flat  /'is  name, 
I  dinna  care  l"  it'll. 


Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 
Comin'  frae  the  towm, 
Gin  a  body  greet  a  body, 

Need  a  body  frown  ? 
Every  lassie  has  her  laddie,  — 

Ne'er  a  ane  hae  I  ; 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 
When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Amang  the  train  tliere  is  a  swain 

I  dearly  lo'e  myscl ' ; 
But  whaur  It  is  Jiame,  or  what  his  name, 
I  dinna  care  to  tell. 

Adapted  by  BURNS. 


KITTY   OF   COLERAINE. 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 
With  a  pitcher  of  milk,  from  the  fair  of  Coleraine, 

When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher  it 
tumbled, 
And  all  the  sweet  buttermilk  watered  the  plain. 

"  0,  what  shall  I  do  now  ?  —  't  was  looking  at  you 
now  ! 

Sure,  sure,  such  a  pitcher  I  '11  ne'er  meet  again  ! 
'T  was  the  pride  of  my  dairy  :  0  Barney  M'Cleary ! 

You  're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine." 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  did  chide  her, 
That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pa  i  i  i . 

A  kiss  then  I  gave  her  ;  and  ere  I  did  leave  her, 
She  vowed  forsuch pleasure she'dbreakit  again. 

'T  was  hay-making  season  —  I  can't  tell  the  rea- 
son— 
Misfortunes  will  never  come  single,  't  is  plain  ; 
For  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 

The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 
Charles  Dawson  shanly. 


THE  DULE  'S  I'  THIS  BONNET  0'  MINE. 

YORKSHIRE  DIALECT. 

The  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine  : 

My  ribbins  '11  never  be  reet ; 
Here,  Mally,  aw'm  like  to  be  fine, 

For  Jamie  '11  be  comin'  to-neet ; 
He  met  me  i'  th'  lone  t'other  day 

(Aw  wur  gooin'  for  wayter  to  th'  well), 
An'  he  begged  that  aw'd  wed  him  i'  May, 

Bi  th'  mass,  if  he  '11  let  me,  aw  will  1 

When  he  took  my  two  honds  into  his, 
Good  Lord,  heaw  they  trembled  between ! 

An*  aw  durst  n't  look  up  in  his  face, 
Berose  on  him  seein'  my  e'en. 


■£- 


80 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


My  cheek  went  as  red  as  a  rose  ; 

There 's  never  a  mortal  con  tell 
Heaw  happy  aw  felt,  —  for,  thae  knows, 

One  could  n't  ha'  axed  him  theirsel'. 

But  th'  tale  wur  at  th'  end  o'  my  tung  : 

To  let  it  eawt  would  n't  be  reet, 
For  aw  thought  to  seem  forrud  wur  wrung  ; 

So  aw  towd  him  aw  'd  tell  him  to-neet. 
But,  Mally,  thae  knows  very  weel, 

Though  it  is  n't  a  thing  one  should  own, 
Iv  aw  'd  th'  pikein'  o'  th'  world  to  mysel', 

Aw  'd  oather  ha'  Jamie  or  noan. 

Neaw,  Mally,  aw  've  towd  thae  my  mind  ; 

What  would  to  do  iv  it  wur  thee  ? 
"  Aw  'd  tak  him  just  while  he  'se  inclined, 

An'  a  farrantly  bargain  he  '11  be  ; 
For  Jamie 's  as  greadly  a  lad 

As  ever  stept  eawt  into  th'  sun. 
Go,  jump  at  thy  chance,  an'  get  wed  ; 

An'  mak  th'  best  o'  th'  job  when  it 's  done  ! ' 

Eh,  dear  !  but  it 's  time  to  be  gwon  : 

Aw  should  n't  like  Jamie  to  wait ; 
Aw  connut  for  shame  be  too  soon, 

An'  aw  would  n't  for  th'  wuld  be  too  late. 
Aw  'm  o'  ov  a  tremble  to  th'  heel : 

Dost  think  'at  my  bonnet  '11  do  ? 
"  Be  off,  lass,  —  thae  looks  very  weel ; 

He  wants  noan  o'  th'  bonnet,  thae  foo  !  " 

EDWIN  WAUGH. 


THE   MOTH'S   KISS,    FIRST! 

FROM    "  IN   A   GONDOLA." 

The  Moth's  kiss,  first  ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up  ;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

"Who  wants  me,  and  wide  open  burst. 


The  Bee's  kiss,  now  ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dared  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

Robert  Browning. 


SUMMER   DAYS. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  walked  together  in  the  wood  : 

Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong  ; 
Sweet  flutterings  were  there  in  our  blood, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  strayed  from  morn  till  evening  came  ; 
We  gathered  flowers,  and  wove  us  crowns  ; 

We  walked  mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 
Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs  ; 

And  always  wished  our  life  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  leaped  the  hedgerow,  crossed  the  brook  ; 

And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song, 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees, 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 

And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze, 
We  feasted,  many  a  gorgeous  June, 

While  larks  were  singing  o'er  the  leas. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
On  dainty  chicken,  snow-white  bread. 

We  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  song  ; 
We  plucked  wild  strawb'rries,  ripe  and  red, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not,  — 
For  loving  seemed  like  breathing  then  ; 

We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men  ; 

And  dreamed  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  I  wander,  muse  alone. 

I  see  her  not  ;  but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood  : 
But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs  ; 

And  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good, 
The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 

That  charmed  me  under  earlier  skies. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
I  love  her  as  we  loved  of  old. 

My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong  ; 
For  love  brings  back  those  hours  of  gold, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

ANONYMOUS. 


<&~ 


■ff 


LOVE. 


ft 


81 


THE   WHISTLE. 

"You  have  heard,"  said  a  youth  to  his  sweet- 
heart, who  stood, 
While  he   sat   on  a  corn-sheaf,    at  daylight's 
decline,  — 
"You  have  heard  of  the  Danish  boy's  whistle  of 
wood  ? 
I  wish  that  that  Danish  boy's  whistle  were  mine. ' ' 

"And  what  would  you  do  with  it  ?  —  tell  me," 
she  said, 
While  an  arch  smile  played  over  her  beautiful 
face. 
"  I  would  blow  it,"  he  answered  ;   "  and  then  my 
fair  maid 
Would  fly  to  my  side,  and  would  here  take  her 
place." 

"  Is  that  all  you  wish  it  for  ? —  That  maybe  yours 
Without  any  magic,"  the  fair  maiden  cried  : 

"A  favor  so  slight  one's  good  nature  secures"  ; 
And  she  playfully  seated  herself  by  his  side. 

"I  would  blow  it  again,"  said  the  youth,  "and 

the  charm 

Would  work  so,  that  not  even  Modesty's  check 

Would  be  able  to  k  eep  from  my  neck  your  fine  arm  " : 

She  smiled,  —  and  she  laid  her  fine  arm  round 

his  neck. 

"Yet  once  more  would  I  blow,  and  the  music 
divine 
Would  bring  me  the  third  time  an  exquisite 
bliss  :  ' 
You  would  lay  your  fair  cheek  to  this  brown  one 
of  mine, 
And  your  lips,  stealing  past  it,  would  give  me 
a  kiss. 

The  maiden  laughed  out  in  her  innocent  glee, — 

"What  a  fool  of  yourself  with  your  whistle 

you  'd  make  ! 

?ov  only  consider,  how  silly  't  would  be, 

To  sit  there  and  whistle  for  —  what  you  might 

take." 

Robert  Story. 


GENEVIEVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

All  are  hut  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  1 

Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 
G 


The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight-; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story,  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  'I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night  ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage,  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 

In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight  ! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
lie  leaped  amid  a  murderous  hand, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land; 


& 


a- 


82 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■ft 


And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain  ; 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  Drain  ; 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; 

—  His  dying  words  —  but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  I 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame  ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  —  she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept,  — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 

And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 

And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


4- 


WHEN   THE   KYE   COME   HAME. 

Come,  all  ye  jolly  shepherds, 
That  whistle  through  the  glen  ! 

I  '11  tell  ye  o'  a  secret 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken  : 

What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

That  the  tongue  o'  man  can  name  ? 


'T  is  to  woo  a  bonnie  lassie 
When  the  kye  come  hame. 
JFJien  the  kye  come  hame, 
When  the  kye  come  hame,  — 
'  Twee/i  the  gloamin'  an'  tJie  mirk, 
When  the  kye  come  hame. 

'T  is  not  beneath  the  burgonet, 

Nor  yet  beneath  the  crown  ; 
'T  is  not  on  couch  o'  velvet, 

Nor  yet  in  bed  o'  down  : 
'T  is  beneath  the  spreading  birk, 

In  the  glen  without  the  name, 
Wi'  a  bonnie  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

There  the  blackbird  bigs  his  nest, 

For  the  mate  he  lo'es  to  see, 
And  on  the  tapmost  bough 

0,  a  happy  bird  is  he  ! 
There  he  pours  his  melting  ditty, 

And  love  is  a'  the  theme  ; 
And  he  '11  woo  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

When  the  blewart  bears  a  pearl, 

And  the  daisy  turns  a  pea, 
And  the  bonnie  lucken  gowan 

Has  fauldit  up  his  ee, 
Then  the  lavrock,  frae  the  blue  lift, 

Draps  down  and  thinks  nae  shame 
To  woo  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

See  yonder  pawky  shepherd, 

That  lingers  on  the  hill  : 
His  yowes  are  in  the  fauld, 

And  his  lambs  are  lying  still ; 
Yet  he  downa  gang  to  bed, 

For  his  heart  is  in  a  flame, 
To  meet  his  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

When  the  little  wee  bit  heart 

Rises  high  in  the  breast, 
And  the  little  wee  bit  starn 

Rises  red  in  the  east, 
0,  there  's  a  joy  sae  dear 

That  the  heart  can  hai-dly  frame  ! 
Wi'  a  bonnie  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  come  hame. 

Then  since  all  Nature  joins 

In  this  love  without  alloy, 
0,  wha  wad  prove  a  traitor 

To  Nature's  dearest  joy  ? 
Or  wha  wad  choose  a  crown, 

Wi'  its  perils  an'  its  fame, 

And  miss  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  come  hame  ? 

James  Hogg. 


-s 


LOVE. 


a 


83 


ATALANTA   VICTORIOUS. 

FROM    "  ATALANTA'S    RACE,"    IN    "THE   EARTHLY 
PARADISE." 


And  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide 
Foot  set  to  foot,  —  a  young  man  slim  and  fair, 
Crisp-haired,  well  knit,  with  iirm  limbs  often  tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may  spare  ; 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair 
A  golden  circlet  of  renown  he  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore, 

But  on  this  day  with  whom  shall  he  contend  ? 
A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 
When  in  the  woods  she  lists  her  bow  to  bend, 
Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad, 
"Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had, 
If  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar  ; 
Too  fair  to  let  the  world  live  free  from  war. 

She  seemed  all  earthly  matters  to  forget ; 
Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear, 
Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were  set 
Calm  and  unmoved  as  though  no  soul  were  near  ; 
But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear, 
Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment  turned 
His  anxious  face  with  fierce  desire  that  burned. 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the  trum- 
pet's clang 
Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there  sprang, 
And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by  side  ; 
Bui  silent  diil  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the  turning-post  was  reached  at  last, 
And  round  about  it  still  abreast  they  passed. 

But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they  ran, 
When  half-way  to  the  starting-point  they  were, 
A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew  near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear  ; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet  the  ground  could  feel, 
And  bliss  unhoped  for  o'er  his  heart  'gan  steal. 

But  midsl  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he  heard 
Her  footsteps  drawing  nearer,  and  the  sound 
Of  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeard 
His  flushed  and  eager  face  he  turned  around, 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound 
Fleet  as  the  wind,  but  scarcely  saw  her  there 
Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood  she  breathing  like  a  little  child 
Amid  some  warlike  clamor  laid  asleep, 
For  no  victorious  joy  her  red  li]>s  smiled, 
Her  cheek  its  wonted  freshness  did  but  keep; 
No  glance  lit   up  her  clear  gray  eyes  and  deep, 

Though  Bome  divine  thought  softened  all  her  face 

As  dine  more  rang  the  trumpet  through  the  place. 


But  her  late  foe  stopped  short  amidst  his  course, 
One  moment  gazed  upon  her  piteously, 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did  force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could  see  ; 
And,  changed  like  one  who  knows  his  time  must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword  ; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly  blade, 

j  Bared  of  its  flowers,  and  through  the  crowded  place 

Was  silence  now,  and  midst  of  it  the  maid 

"Went  by  the  poor  wretch  at  a  gentle  pace, 

And  he  to  hers  upturned  his  sad  white  face  ; 

Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 

Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  night. 

William  Morris. 


ATALANTA   CONQUEEED 


FROM        ATALANTA S    RACE,       IN 
PARADISE." 


THE    EARTHLY 


Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by, 

Again  are  all  folk  round  the  running  place, 

Nor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 

Than  heretofore,  but  that  another  face 

Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for  the  race, 

For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 

Stands  on  the  spot  he  twice  has  looked  upon. 

But  yet  —  what  change  is  this  that  holds  the 
maid  ? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing  blade, 
Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory  ? 
The  others  seemed  to  say,  "  We  come  to  die, 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while, 
That  dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy  smile." 

But  he  —  what  look  of  mastery  was  this 
lie  cast  on  her  I  why  were  his  lips  so  red  ' 
Why  was  his  face  so  flushed  with  happiness  '' 
So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but  dead, 
E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head  ; 
So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleased  to  find 
Some  earthly  damsel  fashioned  to  his  mind. 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his  gaze, 
And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise, 
And  wish  that  she  were  clad  in  other  guise  > 
Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 
(  H  things  unnoticed  when  they  fust  were  he  ml. 
Some  lover's  song,  some  answering  maiden's  word? 

What  makes  these  longings,  vague,  without  a 
name, 
And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before. 
This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of  fame, 


-B-- 


W 


a- 


84 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er, 
These  doubts  that  grow  each  minute  more  and 

more  ? 
Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  grows  near, 
And  weak  defeat  and  woful  victory  fear  ? 

But  while  she    seemed   to   hear  her  beating 

heart, 
Above  their  heads  the  trumpet  blast  rang  out, 
And  forth  they  sprang  ;  and  she  must  play  her 

part ; 
Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a  doubt, 
Though  slackening  once,  she   turned  her  head 

about, 
But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than    e'er   before,    and   all   men    deemed  him 

dead. 

But  with  no  sound  he  raised  aloft  his  hand, 
And  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light  there 

flew 
And  past  the  maid  rolled  on  along  the  sand  ; 
Then  trembling  she  her  feet  together  drew, 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there  grew 
To  have  the  toy ;  some  god  she  thought  had 

given 
That  gift  to  her,  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 

Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps  she  ran, 
And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But  when  she  turned  again,  the  greatdimbed  man 
Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold, 
And  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold, 
Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot  pursuit, 
Though  with  one  hand  she  touched  the  golden 
fruit. 

Note,  too,  the  bow  that  she  was  wont  to  bear 
She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  from  the  quiver  fair 
Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the  turning-post  had  wellnigh  won. 

But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it, 
White  fingers  underneath  his  own  were  laid, 
And  white  limbs  from  his  dazzled  eyes  did  flit, 
Tlun  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid, 
But  she  ran  on  awhile,  then  as  afraid 
Wavered  and  stopped,  and  turned  and  made  no  stay 
Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 

Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast  around, 
Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 
And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she  wound 
To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 
Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt  had  she 


To  win  the  day,  though  now  but  scanty  space 
Was  left  betwixt  him  and  the  winning  place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto  such  winged  feet, 
Quickly  she  gained  upon  him  till  at  last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet, 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple  cast. 
She  wavered  not,  but  turned  and  ran  so  fast 
After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  fulfil, 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but  turned  about  to  win 
Once  more,  an  unblest  woful  victory  — 
And  yet  ■ — ■  and  yet  —  why  does  her  breath  begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily  ? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is  ?  why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow  dim  ? 
Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every  limb  ? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay  to  find 

Else  must  she  fall,  indeed,  and  findeth  this, 

A  strong  man's  arms  about  her  body  twined. 

Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss, 

So  wrapped  she  is  in  new,  unbroken  bliss  : 

Made  happy  that  the  foe  the  prize  hath  won, 

She  weeps  glad  tears  for  all  her  glory  done. 

William  Morris. 


THE    SIESTA. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH. 

"  Vientecico  murmurador. 
Que  lo  gozas  y  andas  todo,"  &c. 

Airs,  that  wander  and  murmur  round, 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow  ! 

Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Lighten  and  lengthen  her  noonday  rest, 

Till  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  is  o'er. 
Sweet  be  her  slumbers  !  though  in  my  breast 

The  pain  she  has  waked  may  slumber  no  more. 
Breathing  soft  from  the  blue  profound, 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Airs  !  that  over  the  bending  boughs, 

And  under  the  shade  of  pendent  leaves, 
Murmur  soft,  like  my  timid  vows 

Or  the  secret  sighs  my  bosom  heaves,  — 
Gently  sweeping  the  grassy  ground, 

Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 
Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


& 


-ff 


"^Eb 


LOVE. 


85 


ACBAK   AND   NOURMAHAL. 

FROM    "THE    LIGHT   OF   THE    HAREM." 

Oh  !  best  of  delights,  as  it  everywhere  is, 

To  be  near  the  loved  one,  —  what  a  rapture  is  his 

Who  in  moonlight  and  music  thus  sweetly  may 

glide 
O'erthe  Lake  of  Cashmere  with  that  one  by  his  side  ! 
If  woman  can  make  the  worst  wilderness  dear, 
Think,  think  what  a  heaven  she  must  make  of 

Cashmere  ! 

So  felt  the  magnificent  Son  of  Acbar, 
When  from  power  and  pomp  and  the  trophies  of  war 
He  flew  to  that  valley,  forgetting  them  all 
With  the  Light  of  the  Harem,  his  young  Nour- 

mahal. 
When  free  and  uncrowned  as  the  conqueror  roved 
By  the  banks  of  that  lake,  with  his  only  beloved, 
He  saw,  in  the  wreaths  she  would  playfully  snatch 
From  the  hedges,  a  glory  his  crown  could  not 

match, 
And  preferred  in  his  heart  the  least  ringlet  that 

curled 
Downherexquisitenecktothethroneoftheworld  !  i 

There  's  a  beauty,  forever  unchangingly  bright,  I 
Like  the  long  sunny  lapse  of  a  summer' s  day's  light, 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  made  tender, 
Till  love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendor. 
This  was  not  the  beauty,  —  0,  nothing  like  this, 
Thatto young  Nourmahal  gave  such  magic  of  bliss, 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days. 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  Hies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the 

eyes, 
Now  nii'lting  in  mist  and  nowbreakingin  gleams, 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  has  of  heaven  in  his 

dreams  ! 
When  pensive,  it  seemed  as  if  that  very  grace, 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face  ; 
And  when  angry,  — for  even  in  the  tranquillest 

climes 
Light  breezes  will  ruffle  the  Bowers  sometimes,  — 
The  short,  passing  anger  but  seemed  to  awaken 
New  beauty,  like  flowers  that  are  sweetest  when 

Bhaki  11. 
If  tenderness  touched  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye 
At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heavenlier  dye, 
From  the  depth  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  re- 

vealings 
From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  light  of  her 

feelings  ! 
Then    her    mirth  —  O,   'twas    sportive    as    ever 

took  wing 
From  the  heart  with  a  burst  like  the  wild-bird 

in  spring,  — 


Illumed  by  a  wit  that  would  fascinate  sages, 
Yet  playful  as  Peris  just  loosed  from  their  cages. 
While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any  control 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  from  her 

soul  ; 
And  where  it  most  sparkled  no  glance  could  dis- 
cover, 
In  lip,  cheek,  or  eyes,  for  she  brightened  all  over,  — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  is  upon, 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples,  and  laughs  in  the  sun. 
Such,  such  were  the  peerless  enchantments  that 

gave 
Nourmahal  the  proud  Lord  of  the  East  for  her 

slave  ; 
And  though  bright  was  his  Harem,  —  a  living 

parterre 
Of  the  flowers  of  this  planet,  —  though  treasures 

were  there, 
For  which  Solomon's  self  might  have  given  all 

the  store 
That  the  navy  from  Ophir  e'er  winged  to  his  shore, 
Yet  dim  before  tier  were  the  smiles  of  them  all, 
And  the  Light  of  his  Harem  was  young  Nourmahal ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


MEETING. 

The  gray  sea,  and  the  long  black  land  ; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low  ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves,  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  in  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm,  sea-scented  beach  ; 

Three  fields  to  cross,  till  a  farm  appears  : 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch* 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys  and  fears, 

Than  the  two  hearts,  beating  each  to  each. 

Robert  Browning. 


THE   LADY'S   LOOKING-GLASS. 
Celia  and   I,  the  other  day, 

Walked  o'er  the  sand-hills  to  the  sea  : 
The  setting  sun  adorned  the  coast, 
His  beams  entire  his  fierceness  lost : 

And   On    the  sllllat I"  the  deep 

The  winds  la\  niily  niit  asleep  : 

The  nymphs  did,  like  the  scene,  appear 

Serenely  pleasant,  calmly  fair  ; 

Soft  felt  her  words  as  Hew  the  air. 

With  seeiet   joy   1   heard  her  say 

Thai  she  would  never  miss  one  day 
A  walk  so  line,  a  sight  so  gay, 


<&-- 


T? 


-R- 


SG 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


tp 


But,  0  the  change  !     The  winds  grow  high, 
Impending  tempests  charge  the  sky, 
The  lightning  hies,  the  thunder  roars, 
The  big  waves  lash  the  frightened  shores. 
Struck  with  the  horror  of  the  sight, 
She  turns  her  head  and  wings  her  flight  ; 
And,  trembling,  vows  she'll  ne'er  again 
Approach  the  shore  or  view  the  main. 

"  Once  more  at  least  look  back,"  said  I, 
"  Thyself  in  that  large  glass  descry  : 
"When  thou  art  in  good  humor  drest, 
When  gentle  reason  rules  thy  breast, 
The  sun  upon  the  calmest  sea 
Appears  not  half  so  bright  as  thee  : 
'T  is  then  that  with  delight  I  rove 
Upon  the  boundless  depth  of  love  : 
I  bless  my  chain,  I  hand  my  oar, 
Nor  think  on  all  I  left  on  shore. 

"  But  when  vain  doubt  and  groundless  fear 

Do  that  dear  foolish  bosom  tear  ; 

When  the  big  lip  and  watery  eye 

Tell  me  the  rising  storm  is  nigh  ; 

'T  is  then  thou  art  yon  angry  main 

Deformed  by  winds  and  dashed  by  rain  ; 

And  the  poor  sailor  that  must  try 

Its  fury  labors  less  than  I. 

Shipwrecked,  in  vain  to  land  I  make, 

While  love  and  fate  still  drive  me  back  : 

Forced  to  dote  on  thee  thy  own  way, 

I  chide  thee  first,  and  then  obey  : 

Wretched  when  from  thee,  vexed  when  nigh, 

I  with  thee,  or  without  thee,  die." 

Matthew  Prior. 


THE   BELLE   OF  THE  BALL. 

Yeaes,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty, 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes, 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty,  — 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly  ; 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  the  county  ball ; 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing  : 
Sin-  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star  ; 


And  then  she  danced,  - 


-O Heaven!  lie;  dancing. 


Dark  was  her  hair  ;  her  hand  was  white  ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender  ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender  ; 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows  ■ 
I  thought  't  was  Venus  from  her  isle, 

And  wondered  where  she  'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers, 

Of  Southey's  prose  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets, 
Of  danglers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles  or  the  last  new  bonnets  ; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock,  — 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle,  — 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

1  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laughed  ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling  : 
My  father  frowned  ;  but  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean,  — 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic  ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen, 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic  ; 
Her  grandmother  for  many  a  year, 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty  ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three-per-cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents, 

0,  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks,  — 

Such  wealth,  such  honors  Cupid  chooses  ; 
He  cares  as  little  foi  the  stocks 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  muses. 

She  sketched  ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach. 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading  : 
She  botanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading  : 
She  warbled  Handel  ;  it  was  grand,  — 

She  made  the  Catilina  jealous  : 
She  touched  the  organ  ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album  too,  at  home, 

Well  filled  with  all  an  album's  glories,  — 

Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories, 


tr 


61 


LOVE. 


"^ 


Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter, 

And  autographs  of  Prince  Leeboo, 
And  recipes  for  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshipped,  "bored  ; 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was  noted  ; 
Her  poodle-dog  was  quite  adored  ; 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laughed,  —  and  every  heart  was  glad, 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished  ; 
She  frowned,  —  and  every  look  was  sad, 

As  if  the  opera  were  demolished. 

She  smiled  on  many  just  for  fun,  — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it ; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one, 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute. 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded  ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  —  and  0, 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded  ! 

Our  love  was  most  like  other  loves,  — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver, 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "  Fly  Not  Yet,"  upon  the  river  ; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted  ; 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows,  —  and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted  :  months  and  years  rolled  by  ; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after. 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh, 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter  ! 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers  ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  belle, 

But  only  Mrs.  —  Something —  Rogers  ! 

WlNTHROP  MACKVVORTH  PRAED. 


THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 

Walked  forth  to  tell  his  beads  ; 
Ami  he  met  with  a  lady  fair 

Clad  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds. 

"  Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar; 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 

My  true-love  thon  didst  see." 

"  And  how  should  I  know  your  true-love 

From  many  another  one  ?  " 
"0.  by  his  cockle  hat,  and  staff, 

And  by  his  sandal  shoon. 


' '  But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view  ; 
His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curled, 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue." 

"  0  lady,  he 's  dead  and  gone  ! 

Lady,  he 's  dead  and  gone  ! 
And  at  his  head  a  green  grass  turf, 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 

"Within  these  holy  cloisters  long 

He  languished,  and  he  died, 
Lamenting  of  a  lady's  love, 

And  'plaining  of  her  pride. 

' '  Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 

Six  proper  youths  and  tall, 
And  many  a  tear  bedewed  his  grave 

Within  yon  kirk-yard  wall." 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth  ? 

And  art  thou  dead  and  gone  ? 
And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me  ? 

Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone  !  " 

"  0  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so  ; 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek  ; 
Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart, 

Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek." 

"0  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar, 

My  sorrow  now  reprove  ; 
For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 

That  e'er  won  lady's  love. 

"And  now,  alas  !  for  thy  sad  loss 
I  '11  evermore  weep  and  sigh  : 

For  thee  I  only  wished  to  live, 
For  thee  I  wish  to  die." 

"Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more, 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain  ; 
For  violets  plucked,  the  sweetest  showers 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  again. 

"Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  do  fly  ; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  lasl  .' 
Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss, 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past." 

"  0  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar  ; 

I  pray  tl ,  say  not  so  ; 

For  since  my  true-love  died  for  me, 

'Tis  meet  my  tears  should  (low. 

"And  will  he  never  come  again  ? 

Will  he  ne'er  come  again  ? 
Ah  !  no  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 

Forever  to  remain. 


t& 


& 


88 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


' '  His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose  ; 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he  ! 
But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave  : 

Alas,  and  woe  is  me  !  " 

"  Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever  : 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land, 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false, 

And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy  ; 
For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 

Since  summer  trees  were  leafy." 

1 '  Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so  ; 
My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart,  — 

0,  he  was  ever  true  ! 

"  And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much -loved  youth, 

And  didst  thou  die  for  me  ? 
Then  farewell  home. ;  for  evermore 

A  pilgrim  I  will  be. 

' '  But  first  upon  my  true-love's  grave 

My  weary  limbs  I  '11  lay, 
And  thrice  I  '11  kiss  the  green -grass  turf 

That  wraps  his  breathless  clay." 

"  Yet  stay,  fair  lady :   rest  awhile 

Beneath  this  cloister  wall  ; 
See  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  cold  wind, 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall." 

"  0  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 

0  stay  me  not,  I  pray  ; 
No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me 

Can  wash  my  fault  away." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again, 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears  ; 
For  see,  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 

Thy  own  true-love  appears. 

' '  Here  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love, 

These  holy  weeds  I  sought ; 
And  here,  amid  these  lonely  walls, 

To  end  my  days  I  thought. 

"  But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 

Is  not  yet  passed  away, 
Might  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 

"Now  fan-well  grief,  and  welcome  joy 

Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 
For  since  I  have  found  thee,  lovely  youth, 

We  nevermore  will  part." 

Adapted  by  THOMAS  PERCY. 


PYGMALION   AND   THE   IMAGE. 

FROM    "THE   EARTHLY    PARADISE." 

ARGUMENT. 

A  Man  of  Cyprus,  a  Sculptor  named  Pygmalion,  made  an  Image 
of  a  Woman,  fairer  than  any  that  had  yet  been  seen,  and  in  the 
end  came  to  love  his  own  handiwork  as  though  it  had  been  alive  : 
wherefore,  praying  to  Venus  for  help,  he  obtained  his  end,  for  she 
made  the  Image  alive  indeed,  and  a  Woman,  and  Pygmalion 
wedded  her. 

At  Amathus,  that  from  the  southern  side 
Of  Cyprus  looks  across  the  Syrian  sea, 
There  did  in  ancient  time  a  man  abide 
Known  to  the  island-dwellers,  for  that  he 
Had  wrought  most  godlike  works  in  imagery, 
And  day  by  day  still  greater  honor  won, 
Which  man  our  old  books  call  Pygmalion. 

The  lessening  marble  that  he  worked  upon, 
A  woman's  form  now  imaged  doubtfully, 
And  in  such  guise  the  work  had  he  begun, 
Because  when  he  the  untouched  block  did  see 
In  wandering  veins  that  form  there  seemed  to  be, 
Whereon  he  cried  out  in  a  careless  mood, 
"  0  lady  Venus,  make  this  presage  good  ! 

' '  And  then  this  block  of  stone  shall  be  thy  maid, 
And,  not  without  rich  golden  ornament, 
Shall  bide  within  thy  quivering  myrtle-shade." 
So  spoke  he,  but  the  goddess,  well  content, 
Unto  his  hand  such  godlike  mastery  sent, 
That  like  the  first  artificer  he  wrought, 
Who  made  the  gift  that  woe  to  all  men  brought. 

And  yet,  but  such  as  he  was  wont  to  do, 
At  first  indeed  that  work  divine  he  deemed, 
And  as  the  white  chips  from  the  chisel  flew 
Of  other  matters  languidly  he  dreamed, 
For  easy  to  his  hand  that  labor  seemed. 
And  he  wasstirredwithmanyatroublingthought, 
And  many  a  doubt  perplexed  him  as  he  wrought. 

And  yet,  again,  at  last  there  came  a  day 
When  smoother  and  more  shapely  grew  the  stone. 
And  he,  grown  eager,  put  all  thought  away 
But  that  which  touched  his  craftsmanship  alone, 
And  he  would  gaze  at  what  his  hands  had  done, 
Until  his  heart  with  boundless  joy  would  swell 
That  all  was  wrought  so  wonderfully  well. 

Yet  long  it  was  ere  he  was  satisfied, 
And  with  his  pride  that  by  his  mastery 
This  thing  was  done,  whose  equal  far  and  wide 
In  no  town  of  the  world  a  man  could  see, 
Came  burning  longing  that  the  work  should  be 
E'en  better  still,  and  to  his  heart  there  came 
A  strange  and  strong  desire  he  could  not  name. 


-31 


LOVE. 


89 


ft 


The  night  seemed  long,  and  long  the  twilight 

seemed, 
A  vain  thing  seemed  his  flowery  garden  fair  ; 
Though  through  the  night  still  of  his  work  he 

dreamed, 
And  though  his  smooth-stemmed  trees  so  nigh  it 

were, 
That  thence  lie  could  behold  the  marble  hair  ; 
Naught  was  enough,  until  with  steel  in  hand 
He  came  before  the  wondrous  stone  to  stand. 

Blinded  with  tears,  his  chisel  up  he  caught, 
And,  drawing  near,  and  sighing,  tenderly 
Upon  the  marvel  of  the  face  he  wrought, 
E'en  as  he  used  to  pass  the  long  days  by  ; 
But  his  sighs  changed  to  sobbing  presently, 
And  on  the  floor  the  useless  steel  he  flung, 
And,  weeping  loud,  about  the  image  clung. 

"Alas!"  he  cried,  "whyhave  I  made  thee  then, 
That  thus  thou  mockest  me  ?     I  know  indeed 
That  many  such  as  thou  are  loved  of  men, 
Whose  passionate  eyes  poor  wretches  still  will  lead 
Into  their  net,  and  smile  to  see  them  bleed  ; 
But  these  the  Gods  made,  and  this  hand  made  thee 
Who  wilt  not  speak  one  little  word  to  me." 

Then  from  the  image  did  he  draw  aback 
To  gaze  on  it  through  tears  :  and  you  had  said, 
Regarding  it,  that  little  did  it  lack 
To  be  a  living  and  most  lovely  maid  ; 
Naked  it  was,  its  unbound  locks  were  laid 
Over  the  lovely  shoulders  ;  with  one  hand 
Reached  out,  as  to  a  lover,  did  it  stand, 

The  other  held  a  fair  rose  over-blown  ; 
No  smile  was  on  tin-  parted  lips,  the  eyes 
Seemed  as  if  even  now  great  love  had  shown 
Unto  them  something  of  its  sweet  surprise. 
Yet  saddened  them  with  half-seen  mysteries. 
And  still  midst  passion  maiden-like  she  seemed, 
As  though  of  love  unehanged  for  aye  she  dreamed. 

Reproachfully  beholding  all  her  grace, 
Pygmalion  stood,  until  he  grew  dry-eyed, 
And  then  al  lasl  he  tinned  away  his  face 
.'     if  from  her  cold  eyea  Ins  grief  to  hide  ; 
And  thus  a  weary  while  did  he  abide, 
With  nothing  in  his  heart  but  vain  desire, 
Th^  ever-burning,  unconsuming  fire. 

No  word  indeed  the  moveless  image  said, 
I'.ut   with  the  sweel  grave   eyes  his  hands  had 

wroughl 
Still  gazed  down  on  his  bowed  imploring  head, 
Yet  his  own  words  some  solace  to  him  brought, 
Gilding  the  net  wherein  his  soul  was  caught 


With  something  like  to  hope,  and  all  that  day 
Some  tender  words  he  ever  found  to  say  ; 

And  still  he  felt  as  something  heard  him  speak  ; 
Sometimes  he  praised  her  beauty,  and  sometimes 
Reproached  her  in  a  feeble  voice  and  weak, 
And  at  the  last  drew  forth  a  book  of  rhymes, 
Wherein  were  writ  the  tales  of  many  climes, 
And  read  aloud  the  sweetness  hid  therein 
Of  lovers'  sorrows  and  their  tangled  sin. 

And  when  the  sun  went  down,  the  frankincense 
Again  upon  the  altar-flame  he  cast 
That  through  the  open  window  floating  thence 
O'er  the  fresh  odors  of  the  garden  passed  ; 
And  so  another  day  was  gone  at  last, 
And  he  no  more  his  lovelorn  watch  could  keep, 
But  now  for  utter  weariness  must  sleep. 

But  the  next  morn,  e'en  while  the  incense-smoke 
At  sunrising  curled  round  about  her  head, 
Sweet  sound  of  songs  the  wonted  epiiet  broke 
Down  in  the  street,  and  he  by  something  led, 
He  knew  not  what,  must  leave  his  prayer  unsaid, 
And  through  the  freshness  of  the  morn  must  see 
The  folk  who  went  with  that  sweet  minstrelsy  ; 

Damsels  and  youths  in  wonderful  attire, 
And  in  their  midst  upon  a  car  of  gold 
An  image  of  the  Mother  of  Desire, 
Wrought  by  his  hands  in  days  that  seemed  grown 

old, 
Though  those  sweet  limbs  a  garment  did  enfold. 
Colored   like   flame,    enwrought   with    precious 

things, 
Most  fit  to  be  the  prize  of  striving  kings. 

Then  he  remembered  that  the  manner  was 
That  fair-clad  priests  the  lovely  Queen  should  take 
Thrice  in  the  year,  and  through  the  city  pass, 
And  with  sweet  songs  the  dreaming  folk  awake  ; 
And  through  the  clouds  a  light  there  seemed  to 

break 
When  he  remembered  all  the  tales  well  told 
About  her  glorious  kindly  deeds  of  old. 

So  his  unfinished  prayer  he  finished  not, 
But,  kneeling,  once  more  kissed  the  marble  feet. 
And,  while  his  heart  with  many  thoughts  waxed 

hot. 

He  clad  himself  with  fresh  attire  and  meet 

For  that  bright  service,  ami  with  blossoms  sweet 

Entwined  with  tender  leaves  he  crowned  his  head, 

And  followed  after  as  the  goddess  led. 

So  there  he  stood,  that  help  from  her  to  gain, 
Bewildered  by  thai  twilight  midst  of  day: 
Downcast   with  listening  to  the  joyous  si  rain 
lie  had  no  part  in,  hopeless  with  delay 


43— 


B1 


err 


90 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-R- 


<  >f  all  the  fair  things  he  had  meant  to  say  : 
Yet,  as  the  incense  on  the  flame  he  cast, 
From  stammering  lips  and  pale  these  words  there 
passed,  — 

"  0  thou  forgotten  help,  dost  thou  yet  know 
What  thing  it  is  I  need,  when  even  I, 
Bent  down  before  thee  in  this  shame  and  woe, 
Can  frame  no  set  of  words  to  tell  thee  why 
I  needs  must  pray,  0  help  me  or  I  die  ! 
Or  slay  me,  and  in  slaying  take  from  me 
Even  a  dead  man's  feeble  memory. 

Yet  soon,  indeed,  before  his  door  he  stood, 
And,  as  a  man  awaking  from  a  dream, 
Seemed  waked  from  his  old  folly  ;  naught  seemed 

good 
In  all  the  things  that  he  before  had  deemed 
At  least  worth  life,  and  on  his  heart  there  streamed 
Cold  light  of  day,  — he  found  himself  alone, 
Reft  of  desire,  all  love  and  madness  gone. 

Thus  to  his  chamber  at  the  last  he  came, 
And,  pushing  through  the  still  half-opened  door, 
He  stood  within  ;  but  there,  for  very  shame 
Of  all  the  things  that  he  had  done  before, 
Still  kept  his  eyes  bent  down  upon  the  floor, 
Thinking  of  all  that  he  had  done  and  said 
Since  he  had  wrought  that  luckless  marble  maid. 

Yet  soft  his  thoughts  were,  and  the  very  place 
Seemed  perfumed  with  some  namelessheavenly  air. 
So  gaining  courage,  did  he  raise  his  face 
Unto  the  work  his  hands  had  made  so  fair, 
And  cried  aloud  to  see  the  niche  all  bare 
Of  that  sweet  form,  while  through  his  heart  again 
There  shot  a  pang  of  his  old  yearning  pain. 

Yet  while  he  stood,  and  knew  not  what  to  do 
With  yearning,  a  strange  thrill  of  hope  there  came, 
A  shaft  of  new  desire  now  pierced  him  through, 
And  therewithal  a  soft  voice  called  his  name, 
And  when  he  turned,  with  eager  eyes  aflame, 
He  saw  betwixt  him  and  the  setting  sun 
The  lively  image  of  his  loved  one. 

He  trembled  at  the  sight,  for  though  her  eyes, 
Her  very  lips,  were  such  as  he  had  made, 
Ami  though  her  tresses  fell  but  in  such  guise 
As  he  had  wrought  them,  now  was  she  arrayed 
In  that  fair  garment  that  the  priests  had  laid 
Upon  the  goddess  on  that  very  morn, 
Dyed  like  the  setting  sun  upon  the  corn. 

Speechless  he  stood,  but  she  now  drew  anear, 
Simple  and  sweet  as  she  was  wont  to  be, 
And  once  again  her  silver  voice  rang  clear, 
Filling  his  soul  with  great  felicity, 
And  thus  she  spoke,  "  Wilt  thou  not  come  to  me, 


0  dear  companion  of  my  new-found  life, 
For  I  am  called  thy  lover  and  thy  wife  ? 

She  reached  her  hand  tohim,  and  with  kindeyes 
Gazed  into  his  ;  but  he  the  fingers  caught 
And  drew  her  to  him,  and  midst  ecstasies 
Passing  all  words,  yea,  wellnigh  passing  thought, 
Felt  that  sweet  breath  that  he  so  long  had  sought, 
Felt  the  warm  life  within  her  heaving  breast 
As  in  his  arms  his  living  love  he  pressed. 

But  as  his  cheek  touched  hers  he  heard  her  say, 
"  Wiltthounotspeak,  Olove  ?  why  dost  thou  weep  ? 
Art  thou  then  sorry  for  this  long-wished  day, 
Or  dost  thou  think  perchance  thou  wilt  not  keep 
This  that  thou  holdest,  but  in  dreamy  sleep  ? 
Nay,  let  us  do  the  bidding  of  the  Queen, 
And  hand  in  hand  walk  through  thy  garden  green ; 

' '  Then  shalt  thou  tell  me,  still  beholding  me, 
Full  many  things  whereof  I  wish  to  know, 
Ami  as  we  walk  from  whispering  tree  to  tree 
Still  more  familiar  to  thee  shall  I  grow, 
And  such  things  shalt  thou  say  unto  me  now 
As  when  thou  deemedst  thou  wast  quite  alone, 
A  madman  kneeling  to  a  thing  of  stone." 

But  at  that  word  a  smile  lit  up  his  eyes 
And  therewithal  he  spake  some  loving  word, 
And  she  at  first  looked  up  in  grave  surprise 
When  his  deep  voice  and  musical  she  heard, 
And  clung  to  him  as  somewhat  grown  afeard  ; 
Then  cried  aloud  and  said,  "0  mighty  one  ! 
What  joy  with  the,e  to  look  upon  the  sun  !  " 

Then  into  that  fair  garden  did  they  pass, 
And  all  the  story  of  his  love  he  told, 
And  as  the  twain  went  o'er  the  dewy  grass, 
Beneath  the  risen  moon  could  he  behold 
The  bright  tears  trickling  down,  then,  waxen  bold, 
He  stopped  and  said,  ' '  Ah,  love,  what  meaneth 

this? 
Seest  thou  how  tears  still  follow  earthly  bliss  ? " 

Then  both  her  white  arms  round  his  neck  she 
threw, 
And  sobbing  said,  "0  love,  what  hurteth  me  ? 
When  first  the  sweetness  of  my  life  I  knew, 
Not  this  I  felt,  but  when  I  first  saw  thee 
A  little  pain  and  great  felicity 
Rose  up  within  me,  and  thy  talk  e'en  now 
Made  pain  and  pleasure  ever  greater  grow." 

"  0  sweet,"  he  said,  "  this  thing  is  even  love, 
Whereof  I  told  thee  ;  that  all  wise  men  fear, 
But  yet  escape  not  ;  nay,  to  gods  above, 
Unless  the  old  tales  lie,  it  draweth  near. 
But  let  my  happy  ears,  I  pray  thee,  hear 
Thy  story  too,  and  how  thy  blessed  birth 
Has  made  a  heaven  of  this  once  lonely  earth." 


c:u 


LOVE. 


91 


a 


"  My  sweet,"  she  said,  "as  yet  I  am  not  wise, 
Or  stored  with  words,  aright  the  tale  to  tell, 
But  listen  :  when  I  opened  first  mine  eyes 
I  stood  within  the  niche  thou  knowest  well, 
And  from  mine  hand  a  heavy  thing  there  fell 
Carved  like  these  flowers,  nor  could  I  see  things 

clear, 
And  but  a  strange  confused  noise  could  hear. 

"At  last  mine  eyes  could  see  a  woman  fair, 
But  awful  as  this  round  white  moon  o'erhead, 
So  that  I  trembled  when  I  saw  her  there, 
For  with  my  life  was  born  some  touch  of  dread, 
And  therewithal  I  heard  her  voice  that  said, 
'  Come  down,  and  learn  to  love  and  be  alive, 
For  thee,  a  well-prized  gift,  to-day  I  give.' 

"  Then  on  the  floor  I  stepped,  rejoicing  much, 
Not  knowing  why,  not  knowing  aught  at  all, 
Till  she  reached  out  her  hand  my  breast  to  touch, 
And  when  her  fingers  thereupon  did  fall, 
Thought  came  unto  my  life,  and  therewithal 
1  knew  her  for  a  goddess,  and  began 
To  murmur  in  some  tongue  unknown  to  man. 

"  And  then  indeed  not  in  this  guise  was  I, 
No  sandals  had  I,  and  no  saffron  gown, 
But  naked  as  thou  knowest  utterly, 
E'en  as  my  limbs  beneath  thine  hand  had  grown, 
And  this  fair  perfumed  robe  then  fell  adown 
Over  the  goddess'  feet  and  swept  the  ground, 
And  round  her  loins  a  glittering  belt  was  bound. 

"  But  when  the  stammering  of  my  tongue  she 
heard 
Upon  my  trembling  lips  her  hand  she  laid, 
And  spoke  again,  '  Nay,  say  not  any  word, 
All  that  thine  heart  would  say  I  know  unsaid, 
Who  even  now  thine  heart  and  voice  have  made  ; 
But  listen  rather,  for  thou  knowest  now 
What  these  words  mean,  and  still  wilt  wiser  grow. 

" '  Thy  body,  lifeless  till  I  gave  it  life, 
A  certain  man,  my  servant,  well  hath  wrought, 
I  give  thee  to  him, as  his  love  and  wife, 
With  all  thy  dowry  of  desire  and  thought, 
Since;  this  his  yearning  heart  hath  ever  sought  ; 
Now  from  my  temple  is  he  on  the  way, 
Deeming  to  find  thee  e'en  as  yesterday  ; 

"  '  Ride  thou  his  coming  by  the  bed-head  there, 
Ami  win  11  thou  seesl  him  se1  his  eyes  upon 
Thine  empty  niche,  and  hear'si  him  cry  for  care, 
Then  call  him  by  his  name,  Pygmalion, 
And  certainly  thy  lover  hast  thou  won  ; 
But  when  in'  st;iinls  before  thee  silently. 
Say  all  these  words  that   I  shall  teach  to  thee.1 

"  With  thai  she  said  what  first   I  told  thee,  love, 

And  then  went  on,  '  Moreover  thou  shalt  say 
That,  I,  the  daughter  of  almighty  Jove, 


Have  wrought  for  him  this  long-desired  day  ; 
In  sign  whereof,  these  things  that  pass  away, 
Wherein  mine  image  men  have  well  arrayed, 
I  give  thee  for  thy  wedding  gear,  0  maid. ' 

"Therewith  her  raiment  she  put  off  from  her, 
And  laid  bare  all  her  perfect  loveliness, 
And,  smiling  on  me,  came  yet  more  anear, 
And  on  my  mortal  lips  her  lips  did  press, 
And  said,  '  Now  herewith  shalt  thou  love  no  less 
Than  Psyche  loved  my  son  in  days  of  old  ; 
Farewell,  of  thee  shall  many  a  tale  be  told. ' 

"  And  even  with  that  last  word  was  she  gone, 
How,  I  know  not,  and  I  my  limbs  arrayed 
In  her  fair  gifts,  and  waited  thee  alone  — 
Ah,  love,  indeed  the  word  is  true  she  said, 
For  now  I  love  thee  so,  I  grow  afraid 
Of  what  the  gods  upon  our  heads  may  send  — 
I  love  thee  so,  I  think  upon  the  end." 

What  words  he  said  ?     How  can  I  tell  again 
What  words  they  said  beneath  the  glimmering 

light, 
Some  tongue  they  used  unknown  to  loveless  men 
As  each  to  each  they  told  their  great  delight, 
Until  for  stillness  of  the  growing  night 
Their  soft  sweet  murmuring  words  seemed  grow- 
ing loud, 
And  dim  the  moon  grew,  hid  by  fleecy  cloud. 

William  morris. 


JAMES   FITZ^IAMES   AND   ELLEN. 

FROM    "THE    LADY    OF    THE     LAKE." 

A  footstep  struck  her  ear, 

And  Snowdoun's  graceful  Knight  was  near. 

She  turned  the  hastier,  lest  again 

The  prisoner  should  renew  his  strain. 

"  0  welcome,  brave  Fitz-James  !  "  she  said  ; 

"  How  may  an  almost  orphan  maid 

Pay  the  deep  debt"  —  "0,  say  not  so  ! 

To  me  no  gratitude  you  owe. 

Not  mine,  alas  !  the  boon  to  give, 

And  bid  thy  noble  father  live  ; 

I  can  hut  be  thy  snide,  sweet  maid, 

With  Scotland's  Bong  thy  suit  to  aid. 

No  tyrant  he,  though  ire  ami  pride 

May  lead  llis  better  mood  aside. 

Come,  Ellen,  come  ;  't  is  more  than  time, 

He  holds  his  court  at  morning  prime." 

W'itli  beating  heart  ami  bosom  wrung, 

As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung. 

Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear, 

Ami  gently  whispered  hope  anil  cheer; 

Her  faltering  steps  half  led,  half  stayed, 

Through  gallery  lair  ami  high  arcade, 

Till,  at  his  touch,  its  wings  of  pride 

A  porta]  anli  unfolded  wide. 


[&~ 


--B1 


92 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


"Within  't  was  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright ; 
It  glowed  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight, 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even, 
And  from  their  tissue  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  stayed  ; 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made, 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  raised, 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gazed  : 
For  him  she  sought  who  owned  this  state, 
The  dreaded  prince  whose  will  was  fate  ! 
She  gazed  on  many  a  princely  port 
Might  well  have  ruled  a  royal  court  ; 
On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed,  — 
Then  turned  bewildered  and  amazed, 
For  all  stood  bare  ;  and  in  the  room 
Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume. 
To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent,      / 
On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent, 
Midst  furs  and  silks  and  jewels  sheen 
He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln  green, 
The  centre  of  the  glittering  ring,  — 
And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's  King ! 

As  wreath  of  snow,  on  mountain  breast, 
Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 
Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 
And  at  the  Monarch's  feet  she  lay  ; 
No  word  her  choking  voice  commands  : 
She  showed  the  ring,  she  clasped  her  hands. 

0,  not  a  moment  could  he  brook, 

The  generous  prince,  that  suppliant  look  ! 

Gently  he  raised  her,  and  the  while 

Checked  with  a  glance  the  circle's  smile  ; 

Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kissed, 

And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismissed  :  — 

"  Yes,  fair  ;  the  wandering  poor  Fitz-James 

The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 

To  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes  bring  ; 

He  will  redeem  his  signet-ring. 

Ask  naught  for  Douglas  ;  yester  even 

His  prince  and  he  have  much  forgiven  : 

Wrong  hath  he  had  from  slanderous  tongue, 

1,  from  his  rebel  kinsmen,  wrong. 
We  would  not  to  the  vulgar  crowd 
Yield  what  they  craved  with  clamor  loud  ; 
Calmly  we  heard  and  judged  his  cause, 
Our  council  aided  and  our  laws. 

I  stanched  thy  father's  death-feud  stern, 
With  stout  De  Vaux  and  gray  Glencairn  ; 
And  Bothwell's  Lord  henceforth  we  own 
The  friend  and  bulwark  of  our  Throne. 
But,  lovely  infidel,  how  now? 
What  clouds  thy  misbelieving  brow  ? 
Lord  James  of  Douglas,  lend  thine  aid  ; 
Thou  must  eonfirm  this  doubting  maid." 


Then  forth  the  noble  Douglas  sprung, 

And  on  his  neck  his  daughter  hung. 

The  Monarch  drank,  that  happy  hour, 

The  sweetest,  holiest  draught  of  Power,  — 

When  it  can  say,  with  godlike  voice, 

Arise,  sad  Virtue,  and  rejoice  ! 

Yet  would  not  James  the  general  eye 

On  nature's  raptures  long  should  pry  : 

He  stepped  between —  "Nay,  Douglas,  nay, 

Steal  not  my  proselyte  away  ! 

The  riddle  't  is  my  right  to  read, 

That  brought  this  happy  chance  to  speed. 

Yes,  Ellen,  when  disguised  I  stray 

In  life's  more  low  but  happier  way. 

'T  is  under  name  which  veils  my  power, 

Nor  falsely  veils,  —  for  Stirling's  tower 

Of  yore  the  name  of  Snowdoun  claims, 

And  Normans  call  me  James  Fitz-James, 

Thus  watch  I  o'er  insulted  laws, 

Thus  learn  to  right  the  injured  cause." 

Then,  in  a  tone  apart  and  low, 

"  Ah,  little  trait' ress  !  none  must  know 

Wrhat  idle  dream,  what  lighter  thought, 

What  vanity  full  dearly  bought, 

Joined  to  thine  eye's  dark  witchcraft,  drew 

My  spell-bound  steps  to  Benvenue, 

In  dangerous  hour,  and  all  but  gave 

Thy  Monarch's  life  to  mountain  glaive  ! " 

Aloud  he  spoke,  —  "  Thou  still  dost  hold 

That  little  talisman  of  gold, 

Pledge  of  my  faith,  Fitz-James's  ring  ; 

What  seeks  fair  Ellen  of  the  King?" 

Full  well  the  conscious  maiden  guessed, 

He  probed  the  weakness  of  her  breast ; 

But  with  that  consciousness  there  came 

A  lightening  of  her  fears  for  G  ramie, 

And  more  she  deemed  the  monarch's  ire 

Kindled  'gainst  him,  who,  for  her  sire, 

Rebellious  broadsword  boldly  drew  ; 

And,  to  her  generous  feeling  true, 

She  craved  the  grace  of  Roderick  Dhu. 

"  Forbear  thy  suit ;  the  King  of  kings 

Alone  can  stay  life's  parting  wings. 

I  know  his  heart,  I  know  his  hand, 

Have  shared  his  cheer,  and  proved  his  brand  , 

My  fairest  earldom  would  I  give 

To  bid  Clan-Alpine's  Chieftain  live  !  — 

Hast  thou  no  other  boon  to  crave  ? 

No  other  captive  friend  to  save  ?  " 

Blushing,  she  turned  her  from  the  King, 

And  to  the  Douglas  gave  the  ring, 

As  if  she  wished  her  sire  to  speak 

The  suit  that  stained  her  glowing  cheek. 

"Nay,  then,  my  pledge  has  lost  its  force, 

And  stubborn  justice  holds  her  course. 


"  Malcolm, come  forth  !  "  —  And,  at  the  word 
Down  knelt  the  Graeme  to  Scotland's  Lord, 


~W 


LOVE. 


93 


-a 


"  For  thee,  rash  youth,  no  supphant  sues, 

From  thee  may  Vengeance  claim  her  dues, 

Who,  nurtured  underneath  our  smile, 

Hast  paid  our  care  by  treacherous  wile, 

And  sought,  amid  thy  faithful  clan, 

A  refuge  for  an  outlawed  man, 

Dishonoring  thus  thy  loyal  name,  — 

Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Graeme  !  " 

His  chain  of  gold  the  King  unstrung, 

The  links  o'er  Malcolm's  neck  he  flung, 

Then  gently  drew  the  glittering  hand, 

And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand. 

Sir  Walter  scott. 


FETCHING   WATER   FROM   THE  WELL. 

Early  on  a  sunny  morning,  while  the  lark  was 

singing  sweet, 
Came,  heyond  the  ancient  farm-house,  sounds  of 

lightly  tripping  feet. 
'T  was  a  lowly  cottage  maiden  going,  — why,  let 

young  hearts  tell,  — 
With  her  homely  pitcher  laden,  fetching  water 

from  the  well. 
Shadows  lay  athwart  the  pathway,  all  along  the 

quiet  lane, 
And  the  breezes  of  the  morning  moved  them  to 

and  fro  again. 
O'er  the  sunshine,  o'er  the  shadow,  passed  the 

maiden  of  the  farm, 
With  a  charmed  heart  within  her,  thinking  of 

no  ill  nor  harm. 
Pleasant,  surely,  were  her  musings,  for  the  nod- 
ding leaves  in  vain 
Sought  to  press  their  bright'ning  image  on  her 

ever-busy  brain. 
Leaves  and  joyous  birds  went  by  her,  like  a  dim, 

half-waking  dream  ; 
And  her  soul  was  only  conscious  of  life's  gladdest 

summer  gleam. 
At  the  old  lane's  shady  turning  lay  a  well  of  water 

bright, 
Singing,  soft,  its  hallelujah  to  the  gracious  morn- 
ing light. 
Fern-leaves,  broad  and  green,  bent  o'er  it  where 

its  .silv'ry  droplets  fell, 
And  the  fairies  dwelt  beside  it,  in  the  spotted 

foxglove  bell. 
Back  she  bent  the  shading  fern-leaves,  dipt  the 

pitcher  in  the  tide,  — 
Drew  it,  with  the  dripping  waters  flowing  o'er  its 

glazed  side. 
But  before  her  anp  could  place  it  on  her  shiny, 

wavy  hair, 
By  her  side  a  youth  was  standing— Love  re- 
joiced to  see  the  pair  ! 


Tones  of  tremulous  emotion  trailed  upon  the  morn- 
ing breeze, 

Gentle  words  of  heart-devotion  whispered  'neath 
the  ancient  trees. 

But  the  holy,  blessed  secrets  it  becomes  me  not 
to  tell : 

Life  had  met  another  meaning,  fetching  water 
from  the  well  ! 

Down  the  rural  lane  they  sauntered.  He  the  bur- 
den-pitcher bore  ; 

She,  with  dewy  eyes  downlooking,  grew  more  beau- 
teous than  before  ! 

When  they  neared  the  silent  homestead,  up  he 
raised  the  pitcher  light ; 

Like  a  fitting  crown  he  placed  it  on  her  hair  of 
wavelets  bright : 

Emblems  of  the  coming  burdens  that  for  love  of 
him  she  'd  bear, 

Calling  every  burden  blessed,  if  his  love  but  light- 
ed there. 

Then,  still  waving  benedictions,  further,  further 
off  he  drew, 

While  his  shadow  seemed  a  glory  that  across  the 
pathway  grew. 

Now  about  her  household  duties  silently  the  maid- 
en went, 

And  an  ever-radiant  halo  o'er  her  daily  life  was 
blent. 

Little  knew  the  aged  matron  as  her  feet  like  music 
fell, 

What  abundant  treasure  found  she  fetching  water 


from  the  well  ! 


ANONYMOUS. 


A   MAIDEN   WITH   A   MILKING-PAIL. 


What  change  has  made  the  pastures  sweet, 
And  reached  the  daisies  at  my  feet, 

And  cloud  that  wears  a  golden  hem  ? 
This  lovely  world,  the  hills,  the  sward,  — 
They  all  look  fresh,  as  if  our  Lord 

But  yesterday  had  finished  them. 

And  here  's  the  field  with  light  aglow  : 
Eow  fresh  its  boundary  lime-trees  show  ! 

And  how  its  wet  leaves  trembling  shine  I 
Between  their  trunks  come  through  to  me 
The  morning  sparkles  of  the  sea, 

Below  the  level  browzing  line. 

T  see  the  pool,  more  clear  by  half 
Than  pools  where  ,.iher  waters  laugh 

lTp  at  the  lnvasts  of  coot  and  rail. 
There,  ns  she  passed  it  on  her  way, 
I  saw  reflected  yesterday 

A  maiden  with  a  milking-pail. 


m- 


■-ff 


94 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


a 


Tlnre,  neither  slowly  nor  in  haste,  — 
One  hand  upon  her  slender  waist, 

The  other  lifted  to  her  pail,  — 
She,  rosy  in  the  morning  light, 
Among  the  water-daisies  white, 

Like  some  fail-  sloop  appeared  to  sail. 

Against  her  ankles  as  she  trod 
The  lucky  buttercups  did  nod  : 

I  leaned  upon  the  gate  to  see. 
The  sweet  thing  looked,  but  did  not  speak  ; 
A  dimple  came  in  either  cheek, 

And  all  my  heart  was  gone  from  me. 

Then,  as  I  lingered  on  the  gate, 
And  she  came  up  like  coming  fate, 

I  saw  my  picture  in  her  eyes,  — 
Clear  dancing  eyes,  more  black  than  sloes  ! 
Cheeks  like  the  mountain  pink,  that  grows 

Among  white-headed  majesties  ! 

I  said,  "  A  tale  was  made  of  old 
That  I  would  fain  to  thee  unfold. 

Ah  !  let  me,  — let  me  tell  the  tale." 
But  high  she  held  her  comely  head  : 
"  I  cannot  heed  it  now,"  she  said, 

"  For  carrying  of  the  milking-pail." 

She  laughed.     What  good  to  make  ado  ? 
I  held  the  gate,  and  she  came  through, 

And  took  her  homeward  path  anon. 
From  the  clear  pool  her  face  had  fled  ; 
It  rested  on  my  heart  instead, 

Reflected  when  the  maid  was  gone. 

"With  happy  youth,  and  work  content, 
So  sweet  and  stately,  on  she  went, 

Eight  careless  of  the  untold  tale. 
Each  step  she  took  I  loved  her  more, 
And  followed  to  her  dairy  door 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail. 

n. 

For  hearts  where  wakened  love  doth  lurk, 
How  fine,  how  blest  a  thing  is  work  ! 

For  work  does  good  when  reasons  fail,  — 
Good  ;  yet  the  axe  at  every  stroke 
Tin-  echo  of  a  name  awoke,  — 

Her  name  is  Mary  Martindale. 

I  'm  glad  that  echo  was  not  heard 
Aright  by  other  men.     A  bird 

Knows  doubtless  what  his  own  notes  tell ; 
And  I  know  not,  — but  I  can  say 
I  felt  as  shamefaced  all  that  day 

As  if  folks  heard  her  name  right  well. 

Anil  when  the  west  began  to  glow 
I  went  —  I  could  not  choose  but  go  — 
To  thai  same  dairy  on  the  hill  ; 


And  while  sweet  Mary  moved  about 
Within,  I  came  to  her  without, 
And  leaned  upon  the  window-sill. 

The  garden  border  where  I  stood 

Was  sweet  with  pinks  and  southernwood. 

I  spoke,  —  her  answer  seemed  to  fail. 
I  smelt  the  pinks,  —  I  could  not  see. 
The  dusk  came  down  and  sheltered  me. 

And  in  the  dusk  she  heard  my  tale. 

And  what  is  left  that  I  should  tell  ? 
I  begged  a  kiss,  ■ —  I  pleaded  well  : 

The  rosebud  lips  did  long  decline  ; 
But  yet,  I  think  —  I  think  't  is  true  — 
That,  leaned  at  last  into  the  dew, 

One  little  instant  they  were  mine  ! 

O  life  !  how  dear  thou  hast  become  ! 
She  laughed  at  dawn,  and  I  was  dumb ! 

But  evening  counsels  best  prevail. 
Fair  shine  the  blue  that  o'er  her  spreads, 
Green  be  the  pastures  where  she  treads, 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail ' 

Jean  ingelow. 


THE   MILKMAID'S   SONG. 

Turn,  turn,  for  my  cheeks  they  burn, 

Turn  by  the  dale,  my  Harry  ! 

Fill  pail,  fill  pail, 

He  has  turned  by  the  dale, 

And  there  by  the  stile  waits  Harry. 
i  Fill,  fill, 
,  Fill  pail,  fill, 

I  For  there  by  the  stile  waits  Harry  ! 
I  The  world  may  go  round,  the  world  may  stand  still 
!  But  I  can  milk  and  marry, 

Fill  pail, 

I  can  milk  and  marry. 

Wheugh,  wheugh  ! 

0,  if  we  two 

Stood  down  there  now  by  the  water, 

I  know  who  'd  carry  me  over  the  ford 

As  brave  as  a  soldier,  as  proud  as  a  lord, 

Though  I  don't  live  over  the  water. 

Wheugh,  wheugh  !  he  's  whistling  through, 

He  's  whistling  "The  Farmer's  Daughter." 

Give  down,  give  down, 

My  crumpled  brown  ! 

He  shall  not  take  the  road  to  the  town, 

For  I  '11  meet  him  beyond  the  water. 

Give  down,  give  down, 

My  crumpled  brown  ! 

And  send  nj^to  my  Harry. 

The  folk  o' towns 

May  have  silken  gowns, 


4 


LOVE. 


■a 


95 


But  I  can  milk  and  many, 

Fill  pail, 

I  can  milk  and  marry. 

Wheugh,  wheugli !  lie  has  whistled  through 

He  has  whistled  through  the  water. 

Fill,  fill,  with  a  will,  a  will, 

For  he  's  whistled  through  the  water, 

And  he  's  whistling  down 

The  way  to  the  town, 

And  it 's  not  "The  Farmer's  Daughter  !  " 

Churr,  churr  !  goes  the  cockchafer, 

The  sun  sets  over  the  water, 

Churr,  churr  !  goes  the  cockchafer, 

I  'm  too  late  for  my  Harry  ! 

And,  0,  if  he  goes  a-soldiering, 

The  cows  they  may  low,  the  hells   they  may 

ring, 
But  I  '11  neither  milk  nor  marry, 
Fill  pail, 
Neither  milk  nor  marry. 

My  brow  beats  on  thy  flank,  Fill  pail, 

Give  down,  good  wench,  give  down  ! 

1  know  the  primrose  bank,  Fill  pail, 

Between  him  and  the  town. 

Give  down,  good  wench,  give  down,  Fill  pail, 

And  he  shall  not  reach  the  town  ! 

Strain,  strain  !  he  's  whistling  again, 

He  's  nearer  by  half  a  mile. 

Mi  >ic,  more!     0,  never  before 

Were  you  such  a  weary  while  ! 

Fill,  fill  !  he  's  crossed  the  hill, 

I  can  see  him  down  by  the  stile, 

He  's  passed  the  hay,  he  \s  coming  this  way, 

He  's  coming  to  me,  my  Harry  ! 

disc  silken  gowns  to  the  folk  o'  towns, 

He  's  coming  to  me,  my  Harry  ! 

There  's  not  so  grand  a  dame  in  the  land, 

That  she  walks  to-night  with  Harry  ! 

Come  late,  come  soon,  come  sun,  come  moon, 

( »,  1  can  milk  and  marry, 

Kill  pail, 

1  can  milk  and  marry. 

Wheugh,  wheugh  !  he  has  whistled  through, 
M\  Harry  !  my  lad  !  my  lover ! 
Set  the  sun  and  fall  the  dew. 
Heigh-ho,  merry  world,  whaf  'a  to  do 
That  you 're  smiling  over  and  over? 

Up  on  the  hill  and  down  in  the  dale, 

And  along  the  tree-tops  over  the  vale 
Shining  over  ami  over, 

Low  in  the  grass  and  high  on  the  hough, 

Shining  over  and  over, 

<  >  world,   have  you  ever  a   lov.-r  '  ^ 

You  were  so  dull  and  cold  ju>i  now; 
0  world,  have  you  ever  a  lover  / 


I  could  not  see  a  leaf  on  the  tree, 

And  now  I  could  count  them,  one,  two,  three, 

Count  them  over  and  over, 

Leaf  from  leaf  like  lips  apart, 

Like  lips  apart  for  a  lover. 

And  the  hillside  beats  with  my  beating  heart, 

And  the  apple-tree  blushes  all  over, 

And  the  May  bough  touched  me  and  made  me 

start, 
And  the  wind  breathes  warm  like  a  lover. 

Pull,  pull  !  and  the  pail  is  full, 

And  milking  's  done  and  over. 

Who  would  not  sit  here  under  the  tree  ? 

What  a  fair  fair  thing 's  a  green  field  to  see  ! 

Brim,  brim,  to  the  rim,  ah  me  ! 

I  have  set  my  pail  on  the  daisies  ! 

It  seems  so  light,  —  can  the  sun  be  set  ? 

The  dews  must  be  heavy,  my  cheeks  are  wet, 

I  could  cry  to  have  hurt  the  daisies  ! 

Harry  is  near,  Harry  is  near, 

My  heart 's  as  sick  as  if  he  were  here, 

My  lips  are  burning,  my  cheeks  are  wet, 

He  has  n't  uttered  a  word  as  yet, 

But  the  air  's  astir  with  his  praises. 

My  Harry  ! 

The  air  's  astir  with  your  praises. 

He  has  scaled  the  rock  by  the  pixy's  stone, 

He  's  among  the  kingcups,  —  he  picks  me  one, 

I  love  the  grass  that  I  tread  upon 

When  I  go  to  my  Harry ! 

He  has  jumped  the  brook,  he  has  climbed  the 

knowe, 
There  's  never  a  faster  foot  I  know, 
But  still  he  seems  to  tarry. 

0  Harry !  0  Harry  !  my  love,  my  pride, 
My  heart  is  leaping,  my  arms  are  wide  ! 
Roll  up,  roll  up,  you  dull  hillside, 

Roll  up,  and  bring  my  Harry  ! 

They  may  talk  of  glory  over  the  sea, 

But  Harry  's  alive,  and  Harry  's  for  me, 

My  love,  my  lad,  my  Harry  I 

Come    spring,    come   winter,    come   sun,    come 

snow, 
What  cares  Dolly,  whether  or  no, 
While  ]  can  milk  and  marry? 
Right  or  wrong,  and  wrong  or  right, 
Quarrel  who  quarrel,  and  fight  who  fight, 
But  I  '11  bring  my  pail  home  every  night 
To  love,  and  home,  and  Harry  ! 
We'll  drink  our  can,  we  '11  eat  our  cake, 
There's  beer  in  the  barrel,  there's  bread  in  the 

hake. 
The  world  may  sleep,  the  world  may  wake, 
Bui   1  shall  milk  and  marry, 
And  marry, 

1  shall  milk  and  marry. 

SYDNEY   DOIiF.LL. 


ty-- 


■ff 


96 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


c& 


AUF   WIEDERSEHEN  !  * 

SUMMER. 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane  ; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said,  ' '  A  uf  wiedersehen  I " 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said,  "  Auf  wiederseJicn !  " 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair  ; 

1  linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she,  ' '  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

'T  is  thirteen  years  :  once  more  I  press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane  ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah  yes, 
I  hear,  "  Auf  wiedersehen  1 " 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art  ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 

But  these  —  they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 

Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart  ; 

She  said,  ' '  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


SWEET   MEETING   OF   DESIRES. 

I  GREW  assured,  before  I  asked, 

That  she'd  be  mine  without  reserve, 
And  in  her  unclaimed  graces  basked 

At  leisure,  till  the  time  should  serve,  — 
With  just  enough  of  dread  to  thrill 

The  hope,  and  make  it  trebly  dear  : 
Thus  loath  to  speak  the  word,  to  kill 

Either  the  hope  or  happy  fear. 

Till  once,  through  lanes  returning  late, 

Her  laughing  sisters  lagged  behind  ; 
And  ere  we  reached  her  father's  gate, 

We  paused  with  one  presentient  mind  ; 
And,  in  the  dim  and  perfumed  mist 

Their  coming  stayed,  who,  blithe  and  free, 
And  very  women,  loved  to  assist 

A  lover's  opportunity. 

Twice  rose,  twice  died,  my  trembling  word  ; 

To  faint  and  frail  cathedral  chimes 
Spake  time  in  music,  and  we  heard 

The  chafers  rustling  in  the  limes. 
Her  dress,  that  touched  me  where  I  stood  ; 

The  warmth  of  her  confided  arm  ; 
*  Till  we  meet  again  I 


Her  bosom's  gentle  neighborhood  ; 
Her  pleasure  in  her  power  to  charm  ; 

Her  look,  her  love,  her  form,  her  touch  ! 

The  least  seemed  most  by  blissful  turn,  — 
Blissful  but  that  it  pleased  too  much, 

And  taught  the  wayward  soul  to  yearn. 
It  was  as  if  a  harp  with  wires 

Was  traversed  by  the  breath  I  drew  ; 

And  0,  sweet  meeting  of  desires  ! 

She,  answering,  owned  that  she  loved  too. 

Coventry  Patmore. 

ZARA'S   EAR-RINGS. 

FROM  THE    SPANISH. 

' '  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they  've  dropt  into 
the  well, 

And  what  to  say  to  Muca,  I  cannot,  cannot  tell." 

'Twas  thus,  Granada's  fountain  by,  spoke  Albu- 
harez'  daughter,  — 

' '  The  well  is  deep,  far  down  they  lie,  beneath  the 
cold  blue  water. 

To  me  did  Muca  give  them,  when  he  spake  his  sad 
farewell, 

And  what  to  say  when  he  comes  back,  alas  !  I  can- 
not tell. 

"  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they  were  pearls 

in  silver  set, 
That  when  my  Moor  was  faraway,  I  ne'er  should 

him  forget, 
That  I  ne'er  to  other  tongue  should  list,  nor  smile 

on  other's  tale, 
Butrememberhemy  lips  had  kissed,  pure  as  those 

ear-rings  pale. 
When  he  comes  back,  and  hears  that  I  have  dropped 

them  in  the  well, 
0,  what  will  Muca  think  of  me,  Icannot,  cannot  tell. 

' '  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  he  '11  say  they 
should  have  been, 

Not  of  pearl  and  of  silver,  but  of  gold  and  glitter- 
ing sheen, 

Ofjasperandofonyx,  and  of  diamond  shining  clear, 

Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with  radiance 
insincere  ; 

That  changeful  mind  unchanging  gems  are  not 
befitting  well,  — 

Thus  will  he  think,  — and  what  to  say,  alas !  I  can- 
not tell. 

"  He  '11  think  when  I  to  market  went  I  loitered  by 

the  way  ; 
He  '11  think  a  willing  ear  I  lent  to  all  the  lads 

might  say  ; 
He'll  think  some  other  lover's  hand,  among  my 

tresses  noosi'd, 
From  the  el^^vherehe  had  placed  them  my  rings 

of  pearl  unloosed ; 


LOVE. 


ft 


He  '11  think  when  I  was  sporting  so  beside  this 
marble  well, 

My  pearls  fell  in,  —  and  what  to  say,  alas  !  I  can- 
not tell. 

"  He  '11  say  I  am  a  woman,  and  we  are  all  the  same ; 
He  '11  say  I  loved  when  he  was  here  to  whisper  of 

his  flame  — 
But  when  he  went  to  Tunis  my  virgin  troth  had 

broken, 
And  thought  no  more  of  Muca,  and  cared  not  for 

his  token. 
My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  0,  luckless,  luckless 

well  ! 
For  what  to  say  to  Muca,  alas  !  I  cannot  tell. 

"I  '11  tell  the  truth  to  Mu9a,  and  I  hope  he  will 

believe, 
That    I  have  thought  of  him  at  morning,  and 

thought  of  him  at  eve  ; 
That  musing  on  my  lover,  when  down  the  sun  was 

gone, 
His  ear-rings  in  my  hand  I  held,  by  the  fountain 

all  alone  ; 
And  that  my  mind  was  o'er  the  sea,  when  from  my 

hand  they  fell, 
And  that  deep  his  love  lies  in  my  heart,  as  they  lie 

in  the  well.  j0HN  GlBSON  lockhart. 


FATIMA   AND   RADITAN. 

FROM    THE   SPANISH. 

"  Diamante  falso  y  fingido, 
Engastado  en  pedernal,"  &c. 

"  False  diamond  set   in   flint !    hard   heart  in 

haughty  breast  ! 
Byasofter,  warmer  bosom  the  tiger's  couch  is  prest. 
Thou  art  fickle  as  the  sea,  thou  art  wandering  as 

the  wind, 
And  tlic  restless  ever-mounting  flame  is  not  more 

hard  to  bind. 
if  the  tears  I  shed  were  tongues,  yet  all  too  few 

would  be 
To  tell  of  all  this  treachery  that  thou  hast  shown 

to  me. 
<  >h  '  I  could  chide  thee  sharply, — but  every  maiden 

knows 

That  she.  who  chides  her  lover  forgives  him  ere  he 
goes. 

"Thouhastcalledmeoftthenowerof all  Grenada's 
maids, 

Thou  hast  said  thai  by  the  side  of  me  tho-first  ami 

fairest  fades  ; 
And  they  thought  thy  heart  was  mine,  and  it 

seemed  to  every  one 
That  what  thou  didst  to  win  my  love,  for  love  of 

me  was  done. 


Alas  !  if  they  but  knew  thee,  as  mine  it  is  to  know, 
They  well  might  see  another  mark  to  which  thine 

arrows  go  ; 
But  thou  giv'st  little  heed,  —  for  I  speak  to  one 

who  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere 

he  goes. 

"It  wearies  me,  mine  enemy,  that  I  must  weep 

and  bear 
What  fills  thy  heart  with  triumph,  and  fills  my 

own  with  care. 
Thou  art  leagued  with  those  that  hate  me,  and  ah ! 

thou  know'st  I  feel 
That  cruel  words  as  surely  kill  as  sharpest  blades 

of  steel. 
'T  was  the  doubt  that  thou  wert  false  that  wrung 

my  heart  with  pain  ; 
But,  now  I  know  thy  perfidy,  I  shall  be  well  again. 
I  would  proclaim  thee  as  thou  art  —  but  every 

maiden  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere  he 

goes." 

Thus  Fatima  complained  to  the  valiant  Raduan, 

Where  underneath  the  myrtles  Alhambra's  foun- 
tains ran  : 

The  Moor  was  inly  moved,  and  blameless  as  he  was, 

He  took  her  white  hand  in  his  own,  and  pleaded 
thus  his  cause  : 

"0  lady,  dry  those  star-like  eyes,  —  their  dimness 
does  me  wrong  ; 

If  my  heart  be  made  of  flint,  at  least 't  will  keep 
thy  image  long  ; 

Thou  hast  uttered  cruel  words,  —  but  I  grieve  the 
less  for  those, 

Since  she  who  chides  her  lover  forgives  him  ere 
he  goes.  William  Cullen  Bryant. 


SOMEBODY. 

Somebody  's  courting  somebody, 
Somewhere  or  other  to-night ; 
Somebody  's  whispering  to  somebody, 
Somebody  's  listening  to  somebody, 
Under  this  clear  moonlight. 

Near  the  bright  river's  (low, 
Banning  so  still  and  slow, 
Talking  so  soft  and  low, 
She  sits  with  somebody. 

Pacing  the  ocean's  shore, 
Edged  by  the  foaming  roar, 
Words  never  used  before 
Sound  sweet  to  somebody. 

Under  the  maple-tree 
Deep  though  the  shadow  be, 


5~ 


•tf 


lJS 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


Plain  enough  they  can  see, 
Bright  eyes  lias  somebody. 

No  one  sits  up  to  wait, 
Though  she  is  out  so  late, 
All  know  she 's  at  the  gate, 
Talking  with  somebody. 

Tintoe  to  parlor  door, 
Two  shadows  on  the  floor, 
Moonlight,  reveal  no  more, 
Susy  and  somebody. 

Two,  sitting  side  by  side, 
Float  with  the  ebbing  tide, 
"Thus,  dearest,  may  we  glide 
Through  life,"  says  somebody. 

Somewhere,  somebody, 
Makes  love  to  somebody, 


To-night. 


anonymous. 


THE  SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG. 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning  ; 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning  ; 

Bent  o'er  the  fire,  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting, 

Is  croaning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knit- 
ting, — 

' '  Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping. " 

"  'T  is  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass 
flapping." 

"Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 

"'T  is  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer 

wind  dying." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 
Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot 's 

stirring  ; 
Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 
Thrills   the  sweet  voice   of  the   young  maiden 

singing. 

"  "What 's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  window, 

I  wonder  ? " 
"  'T  is  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush 

under." 
"  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  your 

stool  on, 
And   singing  all  wrong  that  old  song  of  'The 

Coolun  '  ? " 
There's  a  form  at  the  casement,  — the  form  of 

her  true-love,  — 
And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  "  I  'm  waiting 

for  you,  love  ; 
Get   up  on  the   stool,  through  the   lattice  step 

lightly, 
We  '11  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon 's  shin- 
ing brightly." 


Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot  *s 

stirring ; 
Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 
Thrills   the   sweet  voice  of  the   young  maiden 

singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays  her 
fingers,       ' 

Steals  up  from  her  seat,  —  longs  to  go,  and  yet 
lingers  ; 

A  frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grand- 
mother, 

Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel  with 
the  other. 

Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round  ; 

Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's  sound  ; 

Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 

The  maid  steps,  —  then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her 
lover. 

Slower  —  and   slower  —  and    slower    the   wheel 
swings  ; 

Lower  —  and  lower  —  and  lower  the  reel  rings  ; 

Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stop  their  ringing  and 
moving, 

Through  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moon- 
light are  roving. 

John  Francis  waller. 


A   SPINSTER'S   STINT. 

Six  skeins  and  three,  six  skeins  and  three  ! 

Good  mother,  so  you  stinted  me, 

And  here  they  be,  —  ay,  six  and  three  ! 

Stop,  busy  wheel  !  stop,  noisy  wheel ! 
Long  shadows  down  my  chamber  steal, 
And  warn  me  to  make  haste  and  reel. 

'T  is  done,  — the  spinning  work  complete, 

0  heart  of  mine,  what  makes  you  beat 
So  fast  and  sweet,  so  fast  and  sweet. 

1  must  have  wheat  and  pinks,  to  stick 
My  hat  from  brim  to  ribbon,  thick,  — 
Slow  hands  of  mine,  be  quick,  be  quick  ! 

One,  two,  three  stars  along  the  skies 
Begin  to  wink  their  golden  eyes,  — 
I  '11  leave  my  thread  all  knots  and  ties. 

0  moon,  so  red  !  0  moon,  so  red  ! 
Sweetheart  of  night,  go  straight  to  bed  ; 
Love's  light  will  answer  in  your  stead. 

A-tiptoe,  beckoning  me,  he  stands,  ■ — 
Stop  trembling,  little  foolish  hands, 
And  stop  the  bands,  and  stop  the  bands  ! 

ALICE  CARY. 


tfl- 


LOVE. 


99 


ft 


OTHELLO'S  DEFENCE. 

Othello.    Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend 

signiors, 
My  very  noble  and  approved  good  masters,  — 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true  ;  true,  I  have  married  her  : 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my 

speech, 
And  little  blessed  with  the  soft  phrase  of  peace  ; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith, 
Till  now,  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  used 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field  ; 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle  ; 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause, 
In  speaking  for  myself.     Yet,  by  your  gracious 

patience, 
I  will  a  round  unvarnished  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love  ;  what  drugs,  what 

charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic,  — 
For  such  proceeding  I  am  charged  withal,  — 
I  won  his  daughter. 

Brabantio.   A  maiden  never  bold  ; 
Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet,  that  her  motion 
Blushed  at  herself  ;  and  she  —  in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  everything,  — 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  feared  to  look  on  ! 
It  is  a  judgment  maimed,  and  most  imperfect, 
That  will  confess  perfection  so  could  err 
Against  all  rules  of  nature  ;  and  must  be  driven 
To  find  out  practices  of  cunning  hell, 
Why  tliis  should  be.     I  therefore  vouch  again, 
That  with  some  mixtures  powerful  o'er  the  blood, 
Or  with  some  dram  conjured  to  this  effect, 
He  wrought  upon  her. 

Otti.  I  '11  present 

How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  lady's  love, 
And  she  in  mine. 

Hit  father  loved  me  ;  oft  invited  me  ; 
Still  questioned  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
Fp  mi  year  to  year  ;  — the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
Thai  I  have  passed. 

1  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 
To  th'  very  momenl  that  be  bade  me  tell  it : 
Wherein  I  spake  of  must  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field  ; 
of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  tin-  imminent  deadly 

breach  ; 
Of  being  taken  by  tin'  insolent  foe, 
And  sold  to  slavery  ;  ofmj  redemption  thence, 
And  portance  in  my  travel's  history  : 
Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  deserts  idle, 
Hough   quarries,    rocks,    and   hills   whose   heads 
touch  heaven, 


It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  —  such  was  the  process ; 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     This  to  hear, 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 
But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence  ; 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 
She  'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse.     Which  I  observing, 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour  ;  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart, 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively  :  I  did  consent ; 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke, 
That  my  youth  suffered.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs  : 
She  swore,  —  in  faith  't  was  strange,  't  was  pass- 
ing strange  ; 
'T  was  pitiful,  't  was  wondrous  pitiful  : 
She  wished  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wished 
That  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  :    she 

thanked  me ; 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 
I  should  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.   Upon  this  hint,  I  spake : 
She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  passed  ; 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  'vsed  : 
Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  witness  it. 

Enter  Desdemona,  Iago,  and  Attendant*. 

Duke.   I  think  this  tale  would  win  my  daugh- 
ter too.  — 
Good  Brabantio, 

Take  up  this  mangled  matter  at  the  best : 
Men  do  their  broken  weapons  rather  use, 
Than  their  bare  hands. 

Bra.  I  pray  you  hear  her  speak  : 

If  she  confess  that  she  was  half  the  wooer, 
Destruction  on  my  head,  if  my  bad  blame 
Light  ontheman  !  —  Come  hither,  gentle  mist  re 
Do  you  perceive  in  all  this  noble  company, 
Where  most  you  owe  obedience  ? 

Des.  My  noble  father, 

I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty  : 
To  you  I  am  bound  fur  life  and  education  ; 
My  life  and  education  both  do  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you  ;   you  are  the  lord  of  duty, 
I  am  hitherto   your  daughter  :    hut  here  's  my 

husband ; 
And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  showed 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  1  challenge  that  1  may  profess 
I  )ue  to  tin'  Moor  my  lord. 

Bra.  God  be  with  you  ! —  1  have  done. 

SHAKESPEARE 


&-<- 


-ff 


a 


100 


rOEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


THE   GARDEN   SCENE. 

FROM    "  ROMEO    AND   JULIET." 

Romeo.   He  jests  at  scars  that   never  felt  a 

wound. 
(Juliet  appears  above,  at  a  window.) 
But,  soft  !  what  light  through  yonder  window 

breaks  ? 
It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun  !  — 
Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 
That  thou,  her  maid,  art  far  more  fair  than  she  : 
Be  not  her  maid,  since  she  is  envious  ; 
Her  vestal  livery  is  but  sick  and  green, 
And  none  but  fools  do  wear  it ;  cast  it  off.  — 
It  is  my  lady  ;  0,  it  is  my  love  ! 

0  that  she  knew  she  were  !  — 

She   speaks,   yet   she  says   nothing  :   What   of 

that  ? 
Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it.  — 

1  am  too  bold,  't  is  not  to  me  she  speaks  : 
Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head  ? 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those 

stars, 
As  daylight  doth  a  lamp  ;  her  eyes  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright, 
That  birds  would  sing,  and  think  it  were  not 

night. 
See,  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ! 
0,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch  that  cheek  ! 
Juliet.  Ah  me  ! 

Rom.  She  speaks  :  — 

0,  speak  again,  bright  angel  !  for  thou  art 
As  is  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white-upturned  wondering  eyes 
Of  mortals,  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him, 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

Jul.  0   Romeo,  Romeo  !  wherefore   art  thou 

Romeo  ? 
Deny  thy  father,  and  refuse  thy  name  ; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  I  '11  no  longer  be  a  Capulet. 

Rom.    [Aside.]    Shall  I  hear  more,  or  shall  I 

speak  at  this  ? 
Jul.   'T  is  but  thy  name,  that  is  my  enemy  ;  — 
Thou  art  thyself  though,  not  a  Montague. 
What 's  Montague  ?  it  is  nor  hand,  nor  foot, 
Nor  arm,  nor  face,  nor  any  other  part 
Belonging  to  a  man.     0,  be  some  other  name  ! 
What 's  in  a  name  ?  that  which  we  call  a  rose 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet ; 
So  Romeo  would,  were  he  not  Romeo  called, 


Retain  that  dear  perfection  which  he  owes, 
Without  that  title.  —  Romeo,  doff  thy  name  ; 
And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 
Take  all  myself. 

Rom.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word  : 

Call  me  but  love,  and  I  '11  be  new  baptized  ; 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo. 

Jtjl.  What  man  art  thou,  that,  thus  bescreened 
in  night, 
So  stumblest  on  my  counsel  ? 

Rom.  By  a  name 

I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am  : 
My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 
Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee  : 
Had  I  it  written,  I  would  tear  the  word. 

Jul.   My  ears  have  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred 
words 
Of  that  tongue's  utterance,  yet  I  know  the  sound  : 
Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague  ? 

Rom.  Neither,  fair  saint,  if  either  thee  dislike. 

Jul.  How   cam'st  thou  hither,  tell  me,  and 
wherefore  ? 
The  orchard  walls  are  high,  and  hard  to  climb  ; 
And  the  place  death,  considering  who  thou  art, 
If  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee  here. 

Rom.  With  love's  light  wings  did  I  o'erperch 
these  walls  ; 
For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out  :    • 
And  what  love  can  do,  that  dares  love  attempt ; 
Therefore  thy  kinsmen  are  no  let  to  me. 

Jul.   If  they  do  see  thee,  they  will  murder  thee. 

Rom.  Alack  !  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye, 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords  ;    look  thou  but 

sweet, 
And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity. 

Jul.  I  would  not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee 
here. 

Rom.  I    have  night's  cloak  to  hide  me  from 
their  sight ; 
And,  but  thou  love  me,  let  them  find  me  here  : 
My  life  were  better  ended  by  their  hate, 
Than  death  prorogued,  wanting  of  thy  love. 

Jul.  By  whose   direction   found'  st   thou  out 
this  place  ? 

Rom.  By  love,  who  first  did  prompt  me  to 
inquire  : 
He  lent  me  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes. 
I  am  no  pilot  ;  yet  wert  thou  as  far 
As  that  vast  shore  washed  with  the  farthest  sea, 
I  would  adventure  for  such  merchandise. 

Jul.  Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my 
face  ; 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek, 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke  ;  but  farewell  compliment ! 
Dost  thou  love  me  ?  I  know,  thou  wait  say,  Ay  ; 
And  T  will  take  thy  word  ;  yet,  if  thou  swear' st, 


c& 


.o 


LOVE. 


-a 


101 


Thou  mayst  prove  false  :  at  lover's  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     0  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  : 
Or  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I  '11  frown  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo  ;  but,  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond  ; 
And  therefore  thou  mayst  think  my  'havior  light : 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I  '11  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  overheard'st,  ere  I  was  ware, 
My  true  love  's  passion  :  therefore,  pardon  me  ; 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 

Rom.  Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear, 
That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops  — 

Jul.  0,  swear  not  by  the  moon,  th'  inconstant 
moon, 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 

Rom.  What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 

Jul.  Do  not  swear  at  all ; 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self, 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I  '11  believe  thee. 

Rom.  If  my  heart's  dear  love  — 

Jul.  Well,  do  not  swear  :  although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvised,  too  sudden  ; 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be, 
Ere  one  can  say,  It  lightens.    Sweet,  goodnight! 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Good  night,  good  night  !  as  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart  as  that  within  my  breast  ! 

Rom.   0,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied  \ 

Jul.  What  satisfaction  canst  thou   have   to- 
night ? 

Rom.   Th'  exchange  of  thy  love's  faithful  vow 
for  mine. 

Jul.   I  gave  thee  mine  before  thou  didst  re- 
quest it : 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Rom.  Wouldsl    thou  withdraw  it?   for  what 

purpose,  love  ? 

Jul.   Bui  to  be  frank,  and  giveit  thee  again. 
And  yet   1  wish  lmt  for  the  thing  I  have: 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
My  love  is  deep  ;  the  more  I  give  to  thee, 
The  more  1  have,  for  both  are  infinite. 

[Nurse  '-"/As-  within."] 

I  hear  some  noise  within.     Dear  love,  adieu  !  — 
Anon,  good  muse  !       Sweet    Montague,  he  true. 
Stay  lmt  a  little,   I  will  come  again.    [En'/  above. 

ROM.     <>  blessed,    blessed   night  !     I   am   al'eard, 
Bi  in  night,  all  this  is  lmt  a  dream, 

Too  flattering-sweet  to  be  substantial. 


(Re-enter  Juliet,  above.) 
Jul.  Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and  good  night, 
indeed. 
If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honorable, 
Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow 
By  one  that  I  '11  procure  to  come  to  thee, 
Where,  and  what  time,  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite ; 
And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I  '11  lay, 
And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  throughout  the  world. 
Nurse.  [Within.]  Madam  ! 
Jul.   I  come  anon  :  —  But  if  thou  mean'st  not 
well, 
I  do  beseech  thee,  — 
Nurse.  [Within.']  Madam  ! 
Jul.  By  and  by  ;  I  come  :  — 

To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief  : 
To-morrow  will  I  send. 

Rom.  So  thrive  my  soul,  — 

Jul.  A  thousand  times  goodnight!  [Exit  above. 
Rom.  A  thousand   times  the  worse,  to  want 
thy  light.  — 
Love  goes  toward  love,  as  school-boys  from  their 

books ; 
But  love  from  love,  toward  school  with  heavy  looks. 

[Retiring.] 
(Re-enter  Juliet,  above.) 

Jul.  Hist  !  Romeo,  hist !  —  0,  for  a  falconer's 
voice, 
To  lure  this  tercel-gentle  back  again  ! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud  ; 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where  echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name. 

Rom.  It  is  my  soul,  that  calls  upon  my  name  : 
How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears  ! 

Jul.  Romeo  ! 

Rom.  My  dear  ! 

Jul.  At  what  o'clock  to-morrow 

Shall  I  send  to  thee  ? 

Rom.  At  the  hour  of  nine. 

Jul.  I  will  not  fail :  't  is  twenty  years  till  then. 
I  have  forgot  why  1  did  call  thee  back. 

Rom.   Let  me  stand  here  till  thou  rememher'it. 

Jul.  1  shall  forget,  to  have  thee  still  stand  there, 
Remembering  how  1  love  thy  company. 

Rom.  Ami  I'llstill  stay,  to  have  theestillforget, 
Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this. 

.1 1  i..    "I'  is  almost  morning  ;   I  would  have  thee 
gone  : 
Ami  yet  no  farther  than  a  wanton's  bird  ; 
Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand, 
Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  gyves, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  again, 
So  loving-jealous  of  his  liberty. 

Rom.   1  would  1  were  thy  bird. 

•III..  Sweet,   so  would  I  : 

Vet  I  should  kill  thee  with  much  cherishing. 


B-- 


W 


102 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


1 


Good  night,  good  night  !  parting  is  such  sweet 

sorrow, 

That  I  shall  say  good  night,  till  it  he  morrow. 

[Exit  above. 

Rom.   Sleep  dwell  upon  thine  eyes,  peace  in 

thy  breast  !  — 

"Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest  ! 

Hence  will  I  to  my  ghostly  father's  cell, 

His  help  to  crave,  and  my  dear  hap  to  tell. 

Shakespeare. 


THE   COURTIN'. 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen. 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in  — 

There  wam't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'cm  rusted 
The  ole  queen's  arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  1, 

Clean  grit  an'  human  natur'  ; 
None  could  n't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He  'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells  — 
All  is,  he  could  n't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 
All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 


The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir  ; 
My  !  when  he  made  Ole  Hundred  ring, 

She  Jcnowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet     . 

Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 
O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  ! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  l'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose  ?" 
"  Wal ...  no  ...  I  come  dasignin'  "  — 

"  To  see  my  Ma  ?     She 's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 
Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin'  ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  other, 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wrist 
He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "  I  'd  better  call  agin  "  ; 

Says  she,  "Think  likely,  Mister"  ; 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An' .  .  .  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 


A 


LOVE. 


103 


-a 


The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressiri , 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

And  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 

JAMBS  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


THE   LAIRD   0'  COCKPEN. 

The  laird  o'  Cockpen  he 's  proud  and  he 's  great, 
His  mind  is  ta'en  up  with  the  things  o'  the  state  ; 
He  wanted  a  wife  his  braw  house  to  keep, 
But  favor  wi'  wooin'  was  fashious  to  seek. 

Down  by  the  dyke-side  a  lady  did  dwell, 
At  his  table-head  he  thought  she  'd  look  well ; 
M'Lish's  ae  daughter  o'  Claverse-ha'  Lee, 
A  penniless  lass  wi'  a  lang  pedigree. 

His  wig  was  weel  pouthered,  and  as  gude  as  new  ; 
His  waistcoat  was  white,  his  coat  it  was  blue  ; 
He  put  on  a  ring,  a  sword,  and  cocked  hat, 
And  wha  could  refuse  the  Laird  wi'  a'  that  ? 

He  took  the  gray  mare,  and  rade  cannily  — 
And  rapped  at  the  yett  o'  Claverse-ha'  Lee  : 
"'Gae  tell  Mistress  Jean  to  come  speedily  ben, 
She's  wanted  to  speak  to  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Mistress  Jean  was  makin'  the  elder-flower  wine  : 
"  And  what  brings  the  Laird  at  sic  a  like  time  ? " 
She  put  aff  her  apron,  and  on  her  silk  gown, 
Her  mutch  wi'  red  ribbons,  andgaed  awa'  down. 

And  when  she  cam'  ben,  he  bowed  fu'  low, 
And  what  was  his  errand  he  soon  let  her  know  ; 
Amazed  was  the  Laird  when  the  lady  said  "  Na  "  ; 
And  wi'  a  laigh  curtsey  she  turned  awa'. 

Dnmbfoundered  he  was  —  nae  sigh  did  he  gie  ; 

He  mounted  his  mare — he  rade  cannily  ; 

And  aften  he  thought,  as  hegaed  throughtheglen, 

She's  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen. 

And  now  that  the  Laird  his  exit  had  made, 
Mistress  Jean  she  reflected  on  what  she  had  said  ; 
"Oh  !  foranci  'llget  better, it 'swaurl  'llgetten, 
I  was  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Next  time  that  the  Laird  and  the  lady  were  seen, 
They  were  gaun  arm-in-arm  to  the  kirk  on  the 

green. 
Now  she  sits  in  the  ha'  like  a  weel-tappit  hen  — 
But  as  yet  there 's  nae  chickens  appeared  at  Cock- 
pen. 

Lady  Nairn. 


THE   LITTLE   MILLINER. 

My  girl  hath  violet  eyes  and  yellow  hair, 

A  soft  hand,  like  a  lady's,  small  and  fair, 

A  sweet  face  pouting  in  a  white  straw  bonnet, 

A  tiny  foot,  and  little  boot  upon  it ; 

And  all  her  finery  to  charm  beholders 

Is  the  gray  shawl  drawn  tight  around  her  shoulders, 

The  plain  stuff-gown  and  collar  white  as  snow, 

And  sweet  red  petticoat  that  peeps  below. 

But  gladly  in  the  busy  town  goes  she, 

Summer  and  winter,  fearing  nobodie  ; 

She  pats  the  pavement  with  her  fairy  feet, 

With  fearless  eyes  she  charms  the  crowded  street ; 

And  in  her  pocket  lie,  in  lieu  of  gold, 

A  lucky  sixpence  and  a  thimble  old. 

We  lodged  in  the  same  house  a  year  ago  : 
She  on  the  topmost  floor,  I  just  below,  — 
She,  a  poor  milliner,  content  and  wise, 
I,  a  poor  city  clerk,  with  hopes  to  rise  ; 
And,  long  ere  we  were  friends,  I  learnt  to  love 
The  little  angel  on  the  floor  above. 
For,  every  morn,  ere  from  my  bed  1  stirred, 
Her  chamber  door  would  open,  and  I  heard,  — 
And  listened,  blushing,  to 'her  coming  down, 
And  palpitated  with  her  rustling  gown, 
And  tingled  while  her  foot  went  downward  slow, 
Creaked  like  a  cricket,  passed,  and  died  below  ; 
Then  peeping  from  the  window,  pleased  and  sly, 
I  saw  the  pretty  shining  face  go  by, 
Healthy  and  rosy,  fresh  from  slumber  sweet,  — 
A  sunbeam  in  the  quiet  morning  street. 

And  every  night,  when  in  from  work  she  tript, 
Red  to  the  ears  I  from  my  chamber  slipt, 
That  I  might  hear  upon  the  narrow  stair 
Her  low  "  Good  evening,"  as  she  passed  me  there. 
And  when  her  door  was  closed,  below  sat  I, 
And  hearkened  stilly  as  she  stirred  on  high,  — ■ 
Watched  the  red  firelight  shadows  in  the  room, 
Fashioned  her  face  before  me  in  the  gloom, 
And  heard  her  close  the  window,  lock  the  door, 
Moving  about  more  lightly  than  before, 
And  thought,  "  She  is  undressing  now  !  "  and  O, 
My  cheeks  were  hot,  my  heart  was  in  a  glow  ! 
And  I  made  pictures  of  her,  —  standing  blight 
Before  the  looking-glass  in  bed-gown  white, 
Unbinding  in  a  knot  her  yellow  hair, 
Thru  kneeling  timidly  to  say  a  prayer  ; 
Till,  last,  the  floor  creaked  softly  overhead, 
'Neath  bare  feet  tripping  to  the  little  bed,  — 
And  all  was  hushed.     Yet  still  I  hearkened  on, 
Till  the  fainl  sounds  about  the  streets  were  gone  ; 
And  saw  her  slumbering  with  lips  apart, 
One  little  hand  upon  her  little  heart, 
The  other  pillowing  a  face  that  smiled 
In  slumber  like  tin1  slumber  of  a  child. 
Tin- 1  night  hair  shining  round  the  small  white  ear, 


# 


104 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


•ft 


The  soft  breath  stealing  visible  and  clear, 

And  mixing  with  the  moon's,  whose  frosty  gleam 

Made  round  her  rest  a  vaporous  light  of  dream. 

How  free  she  wandered  in  the  wicked  place, 
Protected  only  by  her  gentle  face  ! 
She  saw  bad  things  —  how  could  she  choose  but 

see  ?  — 
She  heard  of  wantonness  and  misery  ; 
The  city  closed  around  her  night  and  day, 
But  lightly,  happily,  she  went  her  way. 
Nothing  of  evil  that  she  saw  or  heard 
Could  touch  a  heart  so  innocently  stirred,  — 
By  simple  hopes  that  cheered  it  through  the  storm, 
And  little  flutterings  that  kept  it  warm. 
No  power  had  she  to  reason  out  her  needs, 
To  give  the  whence  and  wherefore  of  her  deeds  ; 
But  she  was  good  and  pure  amid  the  strife, 
By  virtue  of  the  joy  that  was  her  life. 
Here,  where  a  thousand  spirits  daily  fall, 
Where  heart  and  soul  and  senses  turn  to  gall, 
She  floated,  pure  as  innocent  could  be, 
Like  a  small  sea-bird  on  a  stormy  sea, 
Which  breasts  the  billows,  wafted  to  and  fro, 
Fearless,  uninjured,  while  the  strong  winds  blow, 
While  the  clouds  gather,  and  the  waters  roar, 
And  mighty  ships  are  broken  on  the  shore. 

'T  was  when  the  spring  was  coming,  when  the 
snow 
Had  melted,  and  fresh  winds  began  to  blow, 
And  girls  were  selling  violets  in  the  town, 
That  suddenly  »a  fever  struck  me  down. 
The  world  was  changed,  the  sense  of  life  was  pained, 
And  nothing  but  a  shadow-land  remained  ; 
Death  came  in  a  dark  mist  and  looked  at  me, 
I  felt  his  breathing,  though  I  could  not  see, 
But  heavily  I  lay  and  did  not  stir, 
And  had  strange  images  and  dreams  of  her. 
Then  came  a  vacancy  :  with  feeble  breath, 
I  shivered  under  the  cold  touch  of  Death, 
And  swooned  among  strange  visions  of  the  dead, 
When  a  voice  called  from  heaven,  and  he  fled  ; 
And  suddenly  I  wakened,  as  it  seemed, 
From  a  deep  sleep  wherein  I  had  not  dreamed. 

And  it  was  night,  and  I  could  see  and  hear, 
And  I  was  in  ihe  room  I  held  so  dear, 
And  unaware,  stretched  out  upon  my  bed, 
I  hearkened  for  a  footstep  overhead. 

But  all  was  hushed.    I  looked  around  the  room, 
And  slowly  made  out  shapes  amid  the  gloom. 
The  wall  was  reddened  by  a  rosy  lvght, 
A  faint  fire  flickered,  and  I  knew  't  was  night, 
Because  below  there  was  a  sound  of  feet 
Dying  away  along  the  quiet  street,  — - 
When,  turning  my  pale  face  and  sighing  low, 
I  saw  a  vision  in  the  quiet  glow  : 


A  little  figure,  in  a  cotton  gown, 
Looking  upon  the  fire  and  stooping  down, 
Her  side  to  me,  her  face  illumed,  she  eyed 
Two  chestnuts  burning  slowly,  side  by  sids,  — 
Her  lips  apart,  her  clear  eyes  strained  to  see, 
Her  little  hands  clasped  tight  around  her  knee, 
The  firelight  gleaming  on  her  golden  head, 
And  tinting  her  white  neck  to  rosy  red, 
Her  features  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  pure, 
With  childish  fear  and  yearning  half  demure. 

0  sweet,  sweet  dream  !  I  thought,  and  strained 

mine  eyes, 
Fearing  to  break  the  spell  with  words  and  sighs. 
Softly  she  stooped,  her  dear  face  sweetly  fair, 
And  sweeter  since  a  light  like  love  was  there, 
Brightening,  watching,  more  and  more  elate, 
As  the  nuts  glowed  together  in  the  grate, 
Crackling  with  little  jets  of  fiery  light, 
Till  side  by  side  they  turned  to  ashes  white,  — 
Then  up  she  leapt,  her  face  cast  off  its  fear 
For  rapture  that  itself  was  radiance  clear, 
And  would  have  clapped  her  little  hands  in  glee, 
But,  pausing,  bit  her  lips  and  peeped  at  me, 
And  met  the  face  that  yearned  on  her  so  whitely, 
And  gave  a  cry  and  trembled,  blushing  brightly, 
While,  raised  on  elbow,  as  she  turned  to  flee, 
"Polly  /"  I  cried,  —  and  grew  as  red  as  she  ! 

It  was  no  dream !  for  soon  my  thoughts  were 

clear, 
And  she  could  tell  me  all,  and  I  could  hear  : 
How  in  my  sickness  friendless  I  had  lain, 
How  the  hard  people  pitied  not  my  pain  ; 
How7,  in  despite  of  what  bad  people  said, 
She  left  her  labors,  stopped  beside  my  bed, 
And  nursed  me,  thinking  sadly  I  would  die  ;' 
How,  in  the  end,  the  danger  passed  me  by  ; 
How  she  had  sought  to  steal  away  before 
The  sickness  passed,  and  I  was  strong  once  more. 
By  fits  she  told  the  story  in  mine  ear, 
And  troubled  all  the  telling  with  a  fear 
Lest  by  my  cold  man's  heart  she  should  be  chid, 
Lest  I  should  think  her  bold  in  what  she  did  ; 
But,  lying  on  my  bed,  I  dared  to  say, 
How  I  had  watched  and  loved  her  many  a  day, 
How  dear  she  was  to  me,  and  dearer  still 
For  that  strange  kindness  done  while  I  was  ill, 
And  how  I  could  but  think  that  Heaven  above 
Had  done  it  all  to  bind  our  lives  in  love. 
And  Polly  cried,  turning  her  face  away, 
And   seemed   afraid,   and  answered    "yea"  nor 

"nay"; 
Then  stealing  close,  with  little  pants  and  sighs, 
Looked  on  my  pale  thin  face  and  earnest  eyes, 
And  seemed  in  act  to  fling  her  arms  about 
My  neck,  then,  blushing,  paused,  in  fluttering 

doubt, 


izr 


4^ 


•a 


LOVE. 


105 


Last,  sprang  upon  my  heart,  sighing  and  sob- 
bing, — 
That  I  might  feel  how  gladly  hers  was  throbbing  ! 

Ah  !  ne'er  shall  I  forget  until  I  die 
How  happily  the  dreamy  days  went  by, 
While  I  grew  well,  and  lay  with  soft  heart-beats, 
Heark'ning  the  pleasant  murmur  from  the  streets, 
And  Polly  by  me  like  a  sunny  beam, 
And  life  all  changed,  and  love  a  drowsy  dream  ! 
'T  was  happiness  enough  to  lie  and  see 
The  little  golden  head  bent  droopingly 
Over  its  sewing,  while  the  still  time  flew, 
And  my  fond  eyes  were  dim  with  happy  dew  ! 
And  then,  when  I  was  nearly  well  and  strong, 
And  she  went  back  to  labor  all  day  long, 
How  sweet  to  lie  alone  with  half-shut  eyes, 
And  hear  the  distant  murmurs  and  the  cries, 
Ami  think   how  pure  she" was  from   pain  and 

sin,  — 
And  how  the  summer  days  were  coming  in  ! 
Then,  as  the  sunset  faded  from  the  room, 
To  listen  for  her  footstep  in  the  gloom, 
To  pant  as  it  came  stealing  up  the  stair, 
To  feel  my  whole  life  brighten  unaware 
When  the  soft  tap  came  to  the  door,  and  when 
The  door  was  opened  for  her  smile  again  ! 
Best,  the  long  evenings  !  —  when,  till  late  at  night, 
She  sat  beside  me  in  the  quiet  light, 
Ami  happy  things  were  said  and  kisses  won, 
Ami  serious  gladness  found  its  vent  in  fun. 
Sometimes  I  would  draw  close  her  shining  head, 
And  pour  her  bright  hair  out  upon  the  bed, 
And  she  would  laugh,  and  blush,  and  try  to  scold, 
While  "  Here,"  1  cried,  "  I  count  my  wealth  in 

gold  ! " 

Once,  like  a  little  sinner  for  transgression, 
She  blushed  upon  my  breast,  and  made  confession  : 
How,  when  that  night  I  woke  and  looked  around, 
I  found  her  busy  with  a.  charm  profound,  — ■ 
One  chestnut  was  herself,  my  girl  confessed, 
The  other  was  tin-  person  she  Lived  best, 
Ami  if  they  burned  together  side  by  side, 
Hi ■  Loved  her,  and  she  would  heroine  Ids  bride  ; 
Ami  burn  indeed  they  did,  to  her  delight,  — 
And  had  the  pretty  charm  not  proven  right*? 
Thus  much,  ami  more,  with  timorous  joy,  she 

said, 
While  her  confessor,  too,  grew  rosy  red, — 

And  rinse  together  pressed  two  blissful  l'aei    ., 

As  I  absolved  the  sinner,  with  embraces. 

And  here  is  winter  come  again,  winds  blow, 
The  houses  and  the  streets  are  white  with  snow; 

Ami  in  the  long  ami  pleasanl  eventide, 

Why,  what  is  Tolly  making  at  my  side  ? 
What  but  a  silk  gown,  beautiful  ami  grand, 

We  bought  together  lately  in  the  Strand  ! 


What  but  a  dress  to  go  to  church  in  soon, 
And  wear  right  queenly  'neath  a  honey-moon  ! 
And  who  shall  match  her  with  her  new  straw 

bonnet, 
Her  tiny  foot  and  little  boot  upon  it, 
Embroidered  petticoat  and  silk  gown  new,. 
And  shawl  she  wears  as  few  fine  ladies  do  ? 
And  she  will  keep,  to  charm  away  all  ill, 
The  lucky  sixpence  in  her  pocket  still ; 
And  we  will  turn,  come  fair  or  cloudy  weather, 

To  ashes,  like  the  chestnuts,  close  together  ! 

Robert  Buchanan. 


WIDOW   MALONE. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone  ! 
Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 
Alone  ! 
0,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts  : 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score, 

Or  more, 
And  fortunes  the)'  all  had  galore, 
In  store  ; 
From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  Crown 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 
'T  was  known 
That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 
Ohone ! 
Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 
They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye, 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 
Ohone ! 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 

Till  one  Misther  O'Brien,  from  Clare, 

(How  quare  ! 
It 's  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there.) 
Put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  — 
Gave  ten  kisses  at  laste,  — 
"0,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own  ! 
0,"  says  he,  "you  're  my  Molly  Malone  .'  " 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye  ! 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh, 

For  why  ? 


[B~ 


W 


106 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■a 


But,  "Lucius,"  says  she, 
"Since  you  've  now  made  so  free, 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 
Ohone ! 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone. " 

There  's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song, 

Not  wrong ; 

And  one  comfort,  it 's  not  very  long, 

But  strong,  — 

If  for  widows  you  die, 

Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh  ; 

For  they  're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

0,  they  're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone  ! 

Charles  Levkr. 


JWOHNNY,    GIT   OOT  ! 

CUMBERLAND    DIALECT. 

"Git  oot  wid  the',  Jwohnny,  — thou 's  no'  but 

a  fash  ; 
Thou  '11  come  till  thou  raises  a  desperate  clash. 
Thou  's  here  every  day,  just  to  put  yan  aboot ; 
An'  thou  moiders  yan  terribly, — Jwohnny,  git 
•  oot! 

"What  says  t'e?     I's  bonnie  ?     Whey!  that's 

nowte  'at 's  new. 
Thou  's  wantin'  a  sweetheart  ?   Thou  's  had  a  gay 

few  ! 
An'  thou  's  cheatit  them,  yan  efter  t'udder,  nea 

doobt ; 
But  I's  nut  to  be  cheatit  saa, — Jwohnny,  git 

oot  ! 

"There's  planty  o'  lads,  i'  beath  Lamplugh  an' 

Dean, 
As  yabble  as  thee,  an'  as  weel  to  be  seen  ; 
An'  I  med  tak  my  pick  amang  o'  there  aboot : 
Does  t'e    think    I  'd   have   thee,    than  ?      Hut ! 

Jwohnny,  git  oot  ! 

"What  ?  Nut  yan  amang  them  'at  likes  me  sae 
weel  ? 

Whey,  min,  —  there  's  Dick  Walker  an'  Jona- 
than Peel 

'At  ola  \s  foorsett  me  i'  t'  lonnings  aboot  ; 

An'  beath  want  to  sweetheart  me, — Jwohnny, 
git  oot  ! 

"What?  Thou  will  hev  a  kiss?  — Ah!  but 
tak  't  if  thou  dar  ! 

I  tell  the'  I  '11  squeel,  if  thou  tries  to  cxi'  nar. 

Tak  care  o'  my  collar  !  —  thou  byspel,  I  '11  shoot  ! 

Nay,  thou  sha'  n't,  hev  anudder  !  —  Noo,  Jwohn- 
ny, git  oot ! 


"  Git  oot  wid  the',  Jwohnny  !  —  thou  's  tewt  me 

reet  sair  ; 
Thou's  brocken  my  comb,  an'  thou  's  toozeltmy 

hair. 
I  will  n't  be  kisst,  thou  unmannerly  loot  ! 
Was  t'ere  iver  sec  impidence  ?   Jwohnny,  git  oot ! 

"Git  oot   wid  the',  Jwohnny!  —  I  tell   the'  be 

deiin  : 
Does   t'e  think  I  '11  tak'  up  wid  Ann    Dixon's 

oald  sheun  ? 
Thou  ma'  ga'  till  Ann  Dixon,  an'  pu'  her  aboot ; 
But  thou  s'all  n't  pu'  me,  ska,  —  Jwohnny,  git 

oot  !  " 

Well  !    that 's  sent  him  off,  —  an'  I  'm  sorry  it 

hes  ; 
He  med  ken  'at  yan  niver  means  hoaf  'at  yan 

says. 

He 's  a  reet  canny  fellow,  however  I  floot, 

An'  it's  growin'  o'  wark  to  say  "Jwohnny,  git 

oot  ! " 

Anonymous. 


DUNCAN   GRAY   CAM'    HERE   TO   WOO. 

Duncan  Gray  cam'  here  to  woo  — 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 
On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fu'  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 
Looked  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh  — 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Duncan  fleeched  and  Duncan  prayed  — 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  craig  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Duncan  sighed  baith  out  and  in,. 

Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  and  blin', 

Spak  o'  lowpin  o'er  a  linn  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide  — 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Shall  T,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 

For  a  haughty  hizzie  dee  ? 

She  may  gae  to  —  France  for  me  ! 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell  — 

Ha,  ha !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  heal  — 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings,  — 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings  ; 

And  0,  her  een  they  speak  sic  things  ! 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't  ! 


t 


LOVE. 


107 


ft 


Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace  — 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case  — ■ 

Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death  : 

Swelling  pity  smoored  his  wrath. 

Now  they  're  crouse  and  canty  baith, 
Ha,  ha  !  the  wooing  o't ! 


Robert  Burns. 


EORY  O'MORE; 

OR,    GOOD   OMENS. 
I. 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn  ; 
He  was  bold  as  the  hawk,  and  she  soft  as  the  dawn  ; 
He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to 

tease. 
"  Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 
Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye  ; 
"With  your  tricks,  I  don't  know,  in  throth,  what 

I  'm  about ; 
Faith  you  've  teazed  till  I  've  put  on  my  cloak 

inside  out." 
"  Och !  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the  way 
You  've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day  ; 
And  't  is  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 
For't  is  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

II. 

"Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  " don't  think  of 

the  like, 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike  ; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,    I  '11  be 

bound" — ■ 
"  Faith  !  "  says  Rory,  "  I  'd  rather  love  you  than 

the  ground." 
"  Now,  Rory,  I  '11  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go  : 
Sure  I  dream  ev'ry  night  that  I  'm  hating  you 

so!  " 
"Och  !"  says  Rory,  "that  same  I  'm  delighted  to 

hear, 
For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear. 
Och  !  jewel,  keep  dhraming  that  same  till  you 

die, 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  nighttheblack 

lie  ! 
And't  is  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be 

sure? 
Since 't  is  all  for  good  luck,  "  says  bold  Rory 

O'More. 

in. 

"Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you 've  teazed  me 

enough  ; 
Sure,  I  've  thrashed,  for  your  sake,  Dinny  Grimes 

and  Jim  Dull': 


And  I've  made  myself,   drinking  your  health, 

quite  a  baste, 
So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  priest." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her 

neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck  ; 
And  he  looked  in  her  eyes,  that  were  beaming 

with  light, 
And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips —  Don't  you  think 

he  was  right  ? 
"Now  Rory,  leave  off,  sir  —  you'll  hug  me  no 

more,  — 
That 's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kissed  me 

before." 
' '  Then  here  goes  another, "  says  he,  ' '  to  make  sure, 
For  there  's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"   says  Rory 

O'More. 

Samuel  Lover. 


KISSING   HER   HAIR. 

Kissing  her  hair,  I  sat  against  her  feet  : 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  —  wound,  and  found  it  sweet ; 
Made  fast  therewith  her  hands,  drew  down  her-eyes, 
Deep  as  deep  flowers,  and  dreamy  like,  dim  skies  ; 
With  her  own  tresses  bound,  and  found  her  fair,  — 
Kissing  her  hair. 

Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to  me,  — 

Sleep  of  cold  sea-bloom  under  the  cold  sea  : 

What  pain  could  get  between  my  face  and  hers  ? 

What  new  sweet  thing  would  Love  not  relish  worse  ? 

Unless,    perhaps,   white  Death  had   kissed  me 

there,  — 

Kissing  her  hair. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN. 

When-  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 

Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan, 

Even  before  he  gets  so  far 

As  the  place  where  the  clustered  palm-trees  are, 

At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates, 

'Phi'  Pel  of  the  Harem,  Jlosc  in  Bloom, 

I  (rders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room,  — 

Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice, 

Sweetened  with  syrups,  tinctured  with  spice; 

Creams,  ami  cordials,  and  sugared  dates  ; 

Syrian  apples,  Othmanee  quinces, 

Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots  ; 

And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes. 

And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 

Of  spiced  meats,  and  costliest  fish, 

And  all  that  the  curious  palate  could  wish, 

Pass  in  and  out  of  the  ccdarn  doors. 


ta-- 


-# 


a- 


108 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets  ; 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 
Of  a  hundred  colors  into  the  air. 
The  dark  sultana  loosens  her  hair, 
And  stains  with  the  henna  plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pearly  nails,  and  hites  her  lips 
Till  they  bloom  again  ;  but  alas,  tlmt  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows  ! 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
When  he  goes  to  tlie  city  Ispahan. 

Then  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand, 
The  dancing  girls  of  Samarcand 
Float  in  like  mists  from  Fairy -land  ! 
And  to  the  low  voluptuous  swoons 
Of  music,  rise  and  fall  the  moons 
Of  their  full  brown  bosoms.     Orient  blood 
Runs  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes  ; 
And  there  in  this  Eastern  paradise, 
Filled  with  the  fumes  of  sandal-wood, 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes,  and  myrrh, 
Sits  Rose  in  Bloom  on  a  silk  divan, 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrackhan  ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 

That 's  when  tlie  Sultan  Slmh-Zaman 

Goes  to  the  city  IspaJucn. 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light 

Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night, 

From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 

I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 

I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 

That  t/ie  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 

Has  gone  to  tlie  city  Ispalmn. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


BONNIE  WEE  THING. 

Bonnie  wee  thing  !  cannie  wee  thing  ! 

Lovely  wee  thing  !  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 
Wishfully  I  look,  and  languish, 

In  that  bonnie  face  o'  thine  ; 
And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi'  anguish, 

Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 

"Wit  and  grace,  and  love  and  beauty, 

In  ae  constellation  shine  ; 
To  adore  thee  is  my  duty, 

Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine  ! 
Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing, 

Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   LUTE-PLAYER. 

FROM    "  HASSAN    BEN    KHAI.ED." 

"  'Music  ! '  they  shouted,  echoing  my  demand, 

And  answered  with  a  beckon  of  his  hand 

The  gracious  host,  whereat  a  maiden,  fair 

As  the  last  star  that  leaves  the  morning  air, 

Came  down  the  leafy  paths.     Her  veil  revealed 

The  beauty  of  her  face,  which,  half  concealed 

Behind  its  thin  blue  folds,  showed  like  the  moon 

Behind  a  cloud  that  will  forsake  it  soon. 

Her  hair  was  braided  darkness,  but  the  glance 

Of  lightning  eyes  shot  from  her  countenance, 

And  showed  her  neck,  that  like  an  ivory  tower 

Rose  o'er  the  twin  domes  of  her  marble  breast. 

Were  all  the  beauty  of  this  age  compressed 

Into  one  form,  she  would  transcend  its  power. 

Her  step  was  lighter  than  the  young  gazelle's, 

And  as  she  walked,  her  anklet's  golden  bells 

Tinkled  with  pleasure,  but  were  cpiickly  mute 

With  jealousy,  as  from  a  case  she  drew 

With  snowy  hands  the  pieces  of  her  lute, 

And  took  her  seat  before  me.     As  it  grew 

To  perfect  shape,  her  lovely  arms  she  bent 

Around  the  neck  of  the  sweet  instrument, 

* 
Till  from  her  soft  caresses  it  awoke 

To  consciousness,  and  thus  its  rapture  spoke  : 
'  I  was  a  tree  within  an  Indian  vale, 
When  first  I  heard  the  love-sick  nightingale 
Declare  his  passion  ;  every  leaf  was  stirred 
With  the  melodious  sorrow  of  the  bird, 
And  when  he  ceased,  the  song  remained  with  me. 
Men  came  anon,  and  felled  the  harmless  tree, 
But  from  the  memory  of  the  songs  I  heard, 
The  spoiler  saved  me  from  the  destiny 
Whereby  my  brethren  perished.     O'er  the  sea 
I  came,  and  from  its  loud,  tumultuous  moan 
I  caught  a  soft  and  solemn  undertone  ; 
And  when  I  grew  beneath  the  maker's  hand 
To  what  thou  seest,  he  sang  (the  while  he  planned) 
The  mirthful  measures  of  a  careless  heart, 
And  of  my  soul  his  songs  became  a  part. 
Now  they  have  laid  my  head  upon  a  breast 
Whiter  than  marble,  I  am  wholly  blest. 
The  fair  hands  smite  me,  and  my  strings  com- 
plain 
With  such  melodious  cries,  they  smite  again, 
Until,  with  passion  and  with  sorrow  swayed, 
My  torment  moves  the  bosom  of  the  maid, 
Who  hears  it  speak  her  own.     I  am  the  voice 
Whereby  the  lovers  languish  or  rejoice  ; 
And  they  caress  me,  knowing  that  my  strain 
Alone  can  speak  the  language  of  their  pain.' 

"  Here  ceased  the  fingers  of  the  maid  to  stray 
Over  the  strings  ;  the  sweet  song  died  away 
In  mellow,  drowsy  murmurs,  and  the  lute 
Leaned  on  her  fairest  bosom,  and  was  mute. 


<&- 


T? 


a- 


LOVE. 


109 


Better  than  wine  that  music  was  to  me  ; 
Not  the  lute  only  felt  her  hands,  but  she 
Played  on  my  heart-strings,  till  the  sounds  be- 
came 
Incarnate  in  the  pulses  of  my  frame. 
Speech  left  my  tongue,  and  in  my  tears  alone 
Found  utterance.     With  stretched  arms  I  im- 
plored 
Continuance,  whereat  her  fingers  poured 
A  tenderer  music,  answering  the  tone 
Her  parted  lips  released,  the  while  her  throat 
Throbbed,   as   a   heavenly  bird   were  fluttering 

there, 
And  gave  her  voice  the  wonder  of  his  note. 
'His  brow,'   she  sang,    'is  white  beneath   his 

hair  ; 
The  fertile  beard  is  soft  upon  his  chin, 
Shading  the  mouth  that  nestles  warm  within, 
As  a  rose  nestles  in  its  leaves  ;  I  see 
His  eyes,  but  cannot  tell  what  hue  they  be, 
For  the  sharp  eyelash,  like  a  sabre,  speaks 
The  martial  law  of  Passion  ;  in  his  cheeks 
The  quick  blood  mounts,  and  then  as  quickly 

goes, 
Leaving  a  tint  like  marble  when  a  rose 
Is  held  beside  it  ;  —  bid  him  veil  his  eyes, 
Lest  all  my  soul  shoxild  unto  mine  arise, 
And  he  behold  it  !  '     As  she  sang,  her  glance 
Dwelt  on  my  face  ;  her  beauty,  like  a  lance, 
Transfixed  my  heart.     I  melted  into  sighs, 
Slain  by  the  arrows  of  her  beauteous  eyes. 
'  Why  is  her  bosom  made  '  (I  cried)  '  a  snare  ? 
Why  does  a  single  ringlet  of  her  hair 
Hold  my  heart  captive  ? '    '  Would  you  know  ? ' 

she  said  ; 
'  It  is  that  you  are  mad  with  love,  and  chains  ■ 
Were  made  for  madmen.'     Then  she  raised  her 

head 
With  answering  love,  that  led  to  other  strains, 
Until   the    lute,    which    shared   with    her    the 

smart, 
Hocked  as  in  storm  upon  her  beating  heart. 
Thus  to  its  wires  she  made  impassioned  cries  : 
'  I  swear  it  by  the  brightness  of  Lis  eyes  ; 
I  swear  it  by  the  darkness  of  his  hair  ; 
By  the  warm  bloom  his  limbs  and  bosom  wear  ; 
By  the  fresh  pearls  bis  rosy  lips  enclose  ; 
By  tlic  '•aim  majesty  of  his  npose  ; 
By  smiles  I  coveted,  ami  frowns  1  feared, 
And  by  til''  shooting  myrtles  of  his  beard,  — 
I  swear  it,  that  from  him  tin-  morning  drew 

Its  freshness,  ami  the  moon  her  silvery  hue, 
The    sun   his   brightness,    and    the    stars   their 

fire, 
And  musk  and  camphor  all  their  odorous  breath  ; 
And  if  lie  answer  not  my  love's  desire, 
Day  will  be  night  to  me,  and  Life  be  Death  ' '  " 

Bayard  Taylor. 


I   ARISE   FROM   DREAMS   OF   THEE. 

SERENADE. 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ?  — 

To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet  ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream,  — ■ 
The  champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

0,  beloved  as  thou  art  ! 

0,  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  fail  ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast  : 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last  ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


HER   SHADOW. 

Bending  between  me  and  the  taper, 
While  o'er  the  harp  her  white  hands  strayed, 

The  shadows  of  her  waving  tresses 
Above  my  hand  were  gently  swayed. 

With  every  graceful  movement  waving, 
I  marked  their  undulating  swell  ; 

I  watched  them  while  they  met  and  parted, 
Curled  close  or  widened,  rose  or  fell. 

I  laughed  in  triumph  and  in  pleasure  — 
So  strange  the  sport,  so  undesigned  ! 

Her  mother  turned  and  asked  me,  gravely, 

"Whatthought  waspassingthroughmymind  V 

'T  is  Love  thai  blinds  the  eyes  of  mothers  ; 

'T  is  Love  that  makes  the  young  maids  fair  ! 
She  touched  my  hand  ;  my  rings  she  counted  ; 

Yet  never  felt  the  shadows  there. 

Keep,  gamesome  Love,  beloved  Infant, 
Bleep  ever  thus  all  mothers  blind  ; 

And  make  thy  dedicated  virgins, 
In  substance  as  in  shadow,  kind  ! 

AUBREY  DE  V'ERF.. 


~ff 


110 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


SMILE   AND   NEVER   HEED   ME. 

Though,  when  other  maids  stand  by, 

I  may  deign  thee  no  reply, 

Turn  not  then  away,  and  sigh,  — 

Smile,  and  never  heed  me  ! 
If  our  love,  indeed,  be  such 
As  must  thrill  at  every  touch, 
Why  should  others  learn  as  much  ?  — 

Smile,  and  never  heed  me  ! 

Even  if,  with  maiden  pride, 
I  should  bid  thee  quit  my  side, 
Take  this  lesson  for  thy  guide,  — 

Smile,  and  never  heed  me  ! 
But  when  stars  and  twilight  meet, 
And  the  dew  is  falling  sweet, 
And  thou  hear'st  my  coming  feet,  — 

Then  —  thou  then  — mayst  heed  me  ! 
Charles  Swain 


SONNETS   FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE. 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
"Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore,  .  . . 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.      The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wTine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 


Tin;  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I  think, 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy  soul 
Move  still,  0  still,  beside  me,  as  they  stole 
Betwixt  me  and  the  dreadful  outer  brink 
Of  obvious  death,  where  I,  who  thought  to  sink, 
\V;i  •  caught  up  into  love,  and  taught  the  whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of  dole 
God  gave  for  baptism,  I  am  fain  to  drink, 
And  praise  its  sweetness,  Sweet,  with  thee  anear. 
The  names  of  country,  heaven,  are  changed  away 
For  where  thou  art  or  shall  be,  there  or  here  ; 
And  this.  .  .  thislute  and  song.  .  .loved  yesterday, 
(Tin;  singing  angels  know)  are  only  dear, 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  what  they  say. 


Indeed  this  very  hove  which  is  my  boast, 

And  which,  when  rising  up  from  breast  to  brow, 

Doth  crown  me  with  a  ruby  large  enow 

To  draw  men's  eyes  and  prove  the  inner  cost,  .  .  . 


This  love  even,  all  my  worth,  to  the  uttermost, 
I  should  not  love  withal,  unless  that  thou 
Hadst  set  me  an  example,  shown  me  how, 
When  first  thine  earnest  eyes  with  mine  were 

crossed, 
And  love  called  love.     And  thus,  I  cannot  speak 
Of  love  even,  as  a  good  thing  of  my  own. 
Thy  soul  hath  snatched  up  mine  all  faint  and  weak, 
And  placed  it  by  thee  on  a  golden  throne,  — 
And  that  I  love  (0  soul,  we  must  be  meek  !) 
Is  by  thee  only,  whom  I  love  alone. 


If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
' '  I  love  her  for  her  smile  .  .  .  her  look  .  .  .  her  way 
Of  speaking  gently,  — for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day." 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee,  —  and  love 

wrought, 
May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry, 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby. 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love's  eternit}'. 


so 


I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 
To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 
Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 
I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length  and  say 
"Take  it."     My  day  of  youth  Avent  yesterday  ; 
My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee. 
Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle  tree, 
As  girls  do,  any  more.     It  only  may 
Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks,  the  mark  of  tears, 
Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs  asid  ■ 
Through  sorrow's  trick.     I  thought  the  funeral- 
shears 
Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justified,  — 
Take  it  thou,  .  .  .  finding  pure,  from  all  those  years, 
The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 


The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise  ; 
I  barter  curl  for  curl  upon  that  mart, 
And  from  my  poet's  forehead  to  my  heart, 
Receive  this  lock  which  outweighs  argosies,  — 
As  purely  black,  as  erst,  to  Pindar's  eyes, 
The  dim  purpureal  tresses  gloomed  athwart 
The  nine  white  Muse-brows.   For  this  counterpart, 
Thy  bay-crown's  shade,  Beloved,  I  surmise, 
Still  lingers  on  thy  curl,  it  is  so  black  ! 
Thus,  with  a  fillet  of  smooth-kissing  breath, 
I  tie  the  shadow  safe  from  gliding  back, 
And  lay  the  gift  where  nothing  hindereth, 
Here  on  my  heart,  as  on  thy  brow,  to  lack 
No  natural  heat  till  mine  grows  cold  in  death. 


# 


LOVE. 


-a 


in 


Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again, 
That  thou  dost  love  me.     Though  the  word  re- 
peated 
Should  seem  "  a  cuckoo-song,"  as  thou  dost  treat 

it, 
Remember,  never  to  the  hill  or  plain, 
Valley  and  wood,  without  her  cuckoo-strain, 
Comes  the  fresh  spring  in  all  her  green  completed. 
Beloved,  I,  amid  the  darkness  greeted 
By  a  doubtful  spirit-voice,  in  that  doubt's  pain 
Cry  :  "  Speak  once  more  —  thou  lovest  !  "   Who 

can  fear 
Toomany  stars,  though  each  inheavenshall  roll, — 
Too  many  flowers,  though  each  shall  crown  the 

year  ? 
Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love  me,  — toll 
The  silver  iterance  !  —  only  minding,  dear, 
To  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy  soul. 


Is  it  indeed  so  ?     If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Wouldst  thou  miss  any  life  in  losing  mine  ? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly  shine, 
Because  of  grave-damps  falling  round  my  head  ? 
1  marvelled,  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 
Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.     I  am  thine  — 
But .  .  .  so  much  to  thee  ?     Can  I  pour  thy  wine 
While  my  hands  tremble  ?  Then  my  soul,  instead 
Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower  range. 
Then,  love  me,  Love !  look  on  me  .  .  .  breathe  on 


me  : 


As  brighter  ladies  do  not  count  it  strange, 
For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 
I  yield  the  grave  for  thy  sake,  and  exchange 
My  near  sweet  view  of  Heaven,  for  earth  with  thee  ! 


My  letters  !  all  dead  paper,  .  .  .  muteand white !  — 
And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 
Against  my  tremulous  hands  which  Loose  the  string 
And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to-night. 
This  said,  ...  he  wished  to  have  me  in  his  sight 
Once,  as  a  friend  :  this  fixed  a  day  in  spring 

'I'o  i and  touch  my  hand  ...  a  simple  thing, 

Vi-t  I  wept  for  it  !  this,  .  .  .  the  paper  's  light .  .  . 

Said,  Dear,  l love  thee;  and  I  sank  and  quailed 

As  if  God's  future  thundered  on  my  past. 

This  said,  /  urn  thine,  —  and  so  its  ink  has  paled 

With  Lying  a1  my  heart  that  beat  too  fast. 

And  this  .  .  .  0  Love,  thy  words  have  ill  availed, 

If  what  this  said,    I   dared  repeat  at  last! 


I  thine  of  thee  !  my  thoughts  do  twine  and  bud 

About   thee,   as  wild   vines,   about   a.  tire. 

Put  out  broad  leaves,  and  soon  there's  naught  to  see 
Except  i  lie  straggling  green  which  hides  t  lie  wood. 

Yet,  0  my  palm-tree,  lie  it  understood 

1  will  not  have  my  thoughts  instead  of  thee 


"Who  art  dearer,  better  !  rather  instantly 
Renew  thy  presence.     As  a  strong  tree  should, 
Rustle  thy  boughs  and  set  thy  trunk  all  bare, 
And  let  these  bands  of  greenery  which  insphere  thee 
Drop  heavily  down,  .  .  .  burst,  shattered,  every- 
where ! 
Because,  in  this  deep  joy  to  see  and  hear  thee 
And  breathe  within  thy  shadow  a  new  air, 
I  do  not  think  of  thee,  —  1  am  too  near  thee. 


The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine  oath 
To  love  me,  I  looked  forward  to  the  moon 
To  slacken  all  those  bonds  which  seemed  too  soon 
And  quickly  tied  to  make  a  lasting  troth. 
Quick-loving   hearts,   I   thought,    may   quickly 

loathe  ; 
And,  looking  on  myself,  I  seemed  not  one 
For  such  man's  love  !  —  more  like  an  out  of  tune 
AVorn  viol,  a  good  singer  would  be  wroth 
To  spoil  his  song  with,  and  which,  snatched  in  haste 
Is  laid  down  at  the  first  ill-sounding  note. 
I  did  not  wrong  myself  so,  but  I  placed 
A  wrong  on  thee.     For  perfect  strains  may  float 
Neath  master-hands,  from  instruments  defaced,  — 
And  great  souls,  at  one  stroke,  may  do  and  doat. 


First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  1  write  ; 
And,  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and  white, 
Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its  "  0  list !  " 
When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight 
Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 
The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half  missed, 
Half  falling  on  the  hair.     0,  beyond  meed  ! 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own 

crown, 
With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 
The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 
In  perfect,  purple  state  ;  since  when,  indeed, 
I  have  been  proud,  andsaid,  "  My  love,  my  own  !" 


How  do  I  love  thee  ?     Let  me  count  the  ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeding  out  of  sight 
Fur  the  ends  of  Being  ami  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Must  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Light ; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 

I    love  thee   with   the   passion    put    |u  use 

lii  my  old  uriet's,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love   I   seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints,  1  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  I  and,  if  God  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  browning. 


[B- 


-ff 


112 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


^ 


BUKD   HELEN. 

["  This  beautiful  tale  of  woman's  love,"  wrote  Dr.  Robert  Cham- 
bers in  1829,  —  "beautiful  in  the  pathos  of  its  simple  and  touching 
narrative,  and  equally  beautiful  in  the  pathos  of  its  simple  and 
touching  language,  was  tirst  published  by  Percy,  as  an  English 
ballad,  under  the  title  of  "  Childe  Waters."] 

Lord  John  stood  in  his  stable  door, 

Said  he  was  boun'  to  ride  : 
Bind  Helen  stood  in  her  bouir  door, 

Said  she  'd  run  by  his  side. 

"The  corn  is  turning  ripe,  Lord  John  ; 

The  nuts  are  growing  fu'  : 
An'  ye  are  boun'  for  your  ain  countrie  ; 

Fain  wad  1  go  with  you." 

"  Wi'  me,  Helen  !  wi'  me,  Helen  ! 

What  wad  ye  do  wi'  me  ? 
I  've  mair  need  o'  a  little  foot-page, 

Than  of  the  like  o'  thee." 

"O,  I  will  be  your  little  foot-boy, 

To  wait  upon  your  steed  ; 
And  I  will  be  your  little  foot-page, 

Your  leish  of  hounds  to  lead." 

' '  But  my  hounds  will  eat  the  breid  0'  wheat, 

And  ye  the  dust  and  bran  ; 
Then  will  ye  sit  and  sigh,  Helen, 

That  e'er  ye  lo'ed  a  man." 

"  0,  your  dogs  may  eat  the  gude  wheat-breid, 

And  I  the  dust  and  bran  ; 
Yet  will  I  sing  and  say,  weel  's  me, 

That  e'er  I  lo'ed  a  man  !  " 

"  0,  better  ye  'd  stay  at  hame,  Helen, 
'  And  sew  your  silver  seam  ; 
For  my  house  is  in  the  far  Hielands, 
And  ye '11  ha'e  puir  welcome  hame." 

"  I  winna  stay,  Lord  John,"  she  said, 

' '  To  sew  my  silver  seam  ; 
Though  your  house  is  in  the  far  Hielands, 

And  I  '11  ha'e  puir  welcome  hame." 

' '  Then  if  you  '11  be  my  foot-page,  Helen, 

As  you  tell  unto  me, 
Then  you  must  cut  your  gown  of  green 

An  inch  abune  your  knee. 

"  So  you  must  cut  your  yellow  locks 

An  inch  abune  your  e'e  ; 
You  must  tell  no  man  what  is  my  name  : 

My  foot-page  then  you'll  be." 

Then  he  has  luppen*  on  his  white  steed, 

And  straight  awa'  did  ride  ; 
Burd  Helen,  dressed  in  men's  array, 

She  ran  fast  by  his  side. 

*  Leapt. 


And  he  was  ne'er  sae  lack  *  a  knicht, 

As  ance  wad  bid  her  ride  ; 
And  she  was  ne'er  sae  mean  a  May, 

As  ance  wad  bid  him  bide. 

Lord  John  he  rade,  Burd  Helen  ran, 

A  livelong  summer-day  ; 
Until  they  cam  to  Clyde-water, 

"Was  filled  frae  bank  to  brae. 

"Seest  thou  yon  water,  Helen,"  said  he, 
"That  flows  from  bank  to  brim  ?  " 

"  I  trust  to  God,  Lord  John,"  she  said, 
"You  ne'er  will  see  me  swim  !  " 

But  he  was  ne'er  sae  lack  a  knicht, 

As  ance  wad  bid  her  ride  ; 
Nor  did  he  sae  much  as  reach  his  hand, 

To  help  her  ower  the  tide. 

The  firsten  step  that  she  wade  in, 

She  wadit  to  the  knee  ; 
"Ochone,  alas,"  quo'  that  ladye  fair, 

"  This  water's  no  for  me  ! " 

The  second  step  that  she  wade  in, 

She  steppit  to  the  middle  : 
Then,  sighing,  said  that  fair  ladye, 

"  I  've  wet  my  gowden  girdle." 

The  thirden  step  that  she  wade  in, 

She  steppit  to  the  neck  ; 
When  that  the  bairn  that  she  was  wi', 

For  cauld  began  to  cpiake. 

"  Lie  still,  my  babe  ;  lie  still,  my  babe  ; 

Lie  still  as  lang  's  ye  may  : 
Your  father,  that  rides  on  horseback  high, 

Cares  little  for  us  twae." 

And  when  she  cam  to  the  other  side, 

She  sat  down  on  a  stane  ; 
Says,  "  Them  that  made  me,  help  me  now  ; 

For  I  am  far  frae  hame  ! 

"0,  tell  me  this,  now,  good  Lord  John  ; 

In  pity  tell  to  me  ; 
How  far  is  it  to  your  lodging, 

Where  we  this  nicht  maun  be  ? " 

"0,  dinna  ye  see  yon  castle,  Helen, 

Stands  on  yon  sunny  lea  ? 
There  ye'se  get  ane  0'  my  mother's  men  : 

Ye'se  get  nae  mair  o'  me." 

"0,  weel  see  I  your  bonnie  castell 

Stands  on  yon  sunny  lea  ; 
But  I  'se  hae  nane  o'  your  mother's  men, 

Though  I  never  get  mair  o'  thee." 

*  Little. 


61 


LOVE. 


113 


ft 


' '  But  there  is  in  yon  castle,  Helen, 

That  stands  on  yonder  lea, 
There  is  a  lady  in  yon  castle, 

Will  sinder*you  and  me." 

"  I  wish  nae  ill  to  that  ladye, 

She  comes  na  in  my  thocht : 
But  I  wish  the  maid  maist  o'  your  love, 

That  dearest  has  you  bocht." 

"When  he  cam  to  the  porter's  yett,t 

He  tirled  at  the  pin  ;  J 
And  wha  sae  ready  as  the  bauld  porter, 

To  open  and  let  him  in  ? 

Many  a  lord  and  lady  bright 

Met  Lord  John  in  the  closs  ; 
But  the  bonniest  lady  among  them  a* 

"Was  hauding  Lord  John's  horse. 

Four  and  twenty  gay  ladyes 

Led  him  through  bouir  and  ha' ; 

But  the  fairest  lady  that  was  there 
Led  his  horse  to  the  sta'. 

Then  up  bespak  Lord  John's  sister  ; 

These  were  the  words  spak  she  : 
"You  have  the  prettiest  foot-page,  brother, 

My  eyes  did  ever  see  — 

"  But  that  his  middle  is  sae  thick, 

His  girdle  sae  wond'rous  hie  : 
Let  him,  I  pray  thee,  good  Lord  John, 

To  chamber  go  with  me." 

"  It  is  not  fit  for  a  little  foot-page, 
That  has  run  through  moss  and  mire, 

To  go  into  chamber  with  any  ladye 
That  wears  so  rich  attire. 

"  It  were  more  meet  for  a  little  foot-page, 
That  has  run  through  moss  and  mire, 

To  take  his  supper  upon  his  knee, 
And  sit  doun  by  the  kitchen  fire." 

When  bells  were  rung,  and  mass  was  sung, 

And  a'  men  boun'  to  meat, 
Burd  Helen  was,  at  the  bye-table,  § 

Amang  the  pages  set. 

"  0,  eat  and  drink,  my  bonnie  boy, 
The  white  breid  and  the  beer." 

"  The  never  a  hit  can  I  cat  or  drink  ; 
.My  heart's  sae  fu'  o'  fear." 

"0,  rat  and  drink,  my  bonnie  boy, 
The  white  lucid  and  the  win''." 

"0  thi'  never  a  hit  ran   I  eat  or  drink  ; 
My  heart's  sac  fu'  o'  pyne."|| 

*  Part.  t  Gate. 

J  <  Ipcned  the  gate  by  turning  the  latch. 

§  Side-table.  ||  Sorrow. 


But  out  and  spak  Lord  John  his  mother, 
And  a  skeely  *  woman  was  she  : 

"  Where  met  ye,  my  son,  wi'  that  bonnie  boy, 
That  looks  sae  sad  on  thee  ? 

"  Sometimes  his  cheek  is  rosy  red, 

And  sometimes  deidly  wan  : 
He  's  liker  a  woman  grit  wi'  child, 

Than  a  young  lord's  serving  man." 

"0,  it  maks  me  laugh,  my  mother  dear, 

Sic  words  to  hear  frae  thee  ; 
He  is  a  squire's  ae  dearest  son, 

That  for  love  has  followed  me. 

' '  Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  bonnie  boy  ; 

Gi'e  my  horse  corn  and  hay." 
"0  that  I  will,  my  master  deir, 

As  quickly  as  I  may." 

She  took  the  hay  aneath  her  arm, 

The  corn  intill  her  hand  ; 
But  atween  the  stable  door  and  the  sta' 

Burd  Helen  made  a  stand. 

' '  0  room  ye  round,  my  bonnie  broun  steids  ; 

0  room  ye  near  the  wa'  ; 

For  the  pain  that  strikes  through  my  twa  sides, 

1  fear,  will  gar  me  fa'." 

She  leaned  her  back  again'  the  wa'  ; 

Strong  travail  came  her  on  ; 
And,  e'en  among  the  great  horse'  feet, 

She  has  brought  forth  her  son. 

When  bells  were  rung,  and  mass  was  sung, 

A  nd  a'  men  boun'  for  bed, 
Lord  John's  mother  and  sister  gay 

In  ae  bouir  they  were  laid. 

Lord  John  hadna  weel  got  aff  his  claes, 

Nor  was  he  weel  laid  doun, 
Till  bis  mother  heard  a  bairn  greet, 

And  a  woman's  heavy  moan. 

"  Win  up,  win  up,  Lord  John,"  she  said  ; 

"Seek  neither  stockings  nor  shoen  : 
For  I  ha'c  heard  a  bairn  loud  greet, 

And  a  woman's  heavy  moan  !" 

"Richt  hastilie  lie  rase  him  up, 

Socht  neither  hose  nor  shoen  ; 
And  lie  's  doen  him  to  the  stable  door, 

By  the  lee  licht  o'  the  mune. 

"  O,  open  the  door,  Burd  Helen,"  he  said, 

"<),  open  and  let  me  in  ; 
1  want  to  see  if  my  steed  be  fed, 

Or  my  greyhounds  tit  to  rin." 

*  Skilful. 


0- 


$ 


114 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


"0  lullaby,  my  own  deir  child  ! 

Lullaby,  deir  child,  deir  ! 
I  wold  thy  father  were  a  king, 

Thy  mother  laid  on  a  bier  !  " 

"  0,  open  the  door,  Burd  Helen,"  he  says, 

"  0,  open  the  door  to  me  ; 
Or,  as  my  sword  hangs  by  my  gair,  * 

1  '11  gar  it  gang  in  three  ! " 

"  That  never  was  my  mother's  custome, 

And  I  hope  it 's  ne'er  be  mine  ; 
A  knicht  into  her  companie, 

When  she  dries  a'  her  pyne." 

He  hit  the  door  then  wi'  his  foot, 

Sae  did  he  wi'  his  knee  ; 
Till  door  o'  deal,  and  locks  o'  steel, 

In  splinders  he  gart  *  flee. 

"An  askin',  an  asking  Lord  John,"  she  says, 

"  An  askin'  ye  '11  grant  me  ; 
The  meanest  maid  about  your  house, 

To  bring  a  drink  to  me. 

"  An  askin',  an  askin',  my  dear  Lord  John, 

An  askin'  ye  '11  grant  me  ; 
The  warsten  bouir  in  a'  your  touirs, 

For  thy  young  son  and  me  ! " 

"  I  grant,  I  grant  yoirr  askins,  Helen, 

An'  that  and  mair  frae  me  ; 
The  very  best  bouir  in  a'  my  touirs, 

For  my  young  son  and  thee. 

"  0,  have  thou  comfort,  fair  Helen, 

Be  of  good  cheer,  I  pray  ; 
And  your  bridal  and  your  kirking  baith 

Shall  stand  upon  ae  day." 

And  he  has  ta'en  her  Burd  Helen, 

And  rowed  her  in  the  silk  ; 
And  he  has  ta'en  his  ain  young  son, 

And  washed  him  in  the  milk. 

And  there  was  ne'er  a  gayer  bridegroom, 

Nor  yet  a  blyther  bride, 
As  they,  Lord  John  and  Lady  Helen, 

Neist  day  to  kirk  did  ride. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   MISTRESS. 

If  he 's  capricious,  she  '11  be  so  ; 

But,  if  his  duties  constant  are, 
She  lets  her  loving  favor  glow 

As  steady  as  a  tropic  star. 
Appears  there  naught  for  which  to  weep, 

*  Side.  t   Made  or  forced  to. 


Shu  '11  weep  for  naught  for  his  dear  sake  ; 
She  clasps  her  sister  in  her  sleep  ; 

Her  love  in  dreams  is  most  awake. 
Her  soul,  that  once  with  pleasure  shook 

Did  any  eyes  her  beauty  own, 
Now  wonders  how  they  dare  to  look 

On  what  belongs  to  him  alone. 
The  indignity  of  taking  gifts 

Exhilarates  her  loving  breast ; 
A  rapture  of  submission  lifts 

Her  life  into  celestial  rest. 
There  's  nothing  left  of  what  she  was,  — 

Back  to  the  babe  the  woman  dies  ; 
And  all  the  wisdom  that  she  has 

Is  to  love  him  for  being  wise. 
She  's  confident  because  she  fears  ; 

And,  though  discreet  when  he 's  away, 
If  none  but  her  dear  despot  hears, 

She  '11  prattle  like  a  child  at  play. 
Perchance,  when  all  her  praise  is  said, 

He  tells  the  news,  —  a  battle  won  — 
On  either  side  ten  thousand  dead  — 

Describing  how  the  whole  was  done  : 
She  thinks,  "  He 's  looking  on  my  face  ! 

I  am  his  joy  ;  whate'er  I  do, 
He  sees  such  time-contenting  grace 

In  that,  he  'd  have  me  always  so  !  " 
And,  evermore,  for  either's  sake, 

To  the  sweet  folly  of  the  dove 
She  joins  the  cunning  of  the  snake, 

To  rivet  and  exalt  his  love. 
Her  mode  of  candor  is  deceit ; 

And  what  she  thinks  from  what  she  '11  say, 
(Although  I  '11  never  call  her  cheat,) 

Lies  far  as  Scotland  from  Cathay. 
Without  his  knowledge  he  was  won,  — 

Against  his  nature  kept  devout ; 
She  '11  never  tell  him  how  't  was  done, 

And  he  will  never  And  it  out. 
If,  sudden,  he  suspects  her  wiles, 

And  hears  her  forging  chain  and  trap, 
And  looks,  —  she  sits  in  simple  smiles, 

Her  two  hands  lying  in  her  lap  ! 
Her  secret  (privilege  of  the  Bard, 

Whose  fancy  is  of  either  sex) 

Is  mine  ;  but  let  the  darkness  guard 

Mysteries  that  light  would  more  perplex. 

Coventry  Patmore. 


BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL  THOSE  ENDEARING 
YOUNG  CHARMS.  ' 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms. 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away  ! 


eb- 


s1 


f} 


<— 4 1- 


LOVE. 


115 


Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment  thou 
art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  may  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear  ! 
0  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  to  her  god  when  he  sets 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose  ! 

THOMAS  MOORE  ("Irish  Melodies  "). 


WERE   I   AS    BASE   AS    IS   THE    LOWLY 
PLAIN. 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 

And  you,  my  Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above, 

Yet  should   the  thoughts  of  me  your   humble 

swain 
Ascend  to  heaven,  in  honor  of  my  Love. 

Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Whereso'er  you  were,  with  you  my  Love  should 

go- 
Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the  skies, 
My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun, 
And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes 
Till  heaven  waxed  blind,  and  till  the  world  were 

done. 

Whereso'er  I  am,  below,  or  else  above  you, 
Whereso'er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 

Joshua  Sylvester. 


LOCHINVAR. 

0,  TOTTNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the 

best ; 
And,  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapon  had 

none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochin- 
var. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for 

stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  River  where  ford  there  was 

none  ; 
But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 


The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  - 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers, 

and  all. 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his 

sword 
(For  the  poor  craven   bridegroom  said  never  a 

word), 
"  0,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochin- 
var ? " 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  de- 
nied ;  — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its 

tide,  — 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine, 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Loch- 
invar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it 

up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to 

sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere   her  mother   could 

bar,  — ■ 
"Now  tread  we  n  measure, "  said  young  Lochin  va  r. 

So  stately  hia  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace  : 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did 

fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet 

and  plume  ; 
And  the  bridemaidens  whispered,  "'T  wen;  bet- 
ter by  far 
To  have  matched   our  fair  cousin   with  young 
Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  car, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger 

stood  near  ; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung  ; 
"She  is  won  !  we  are  gone!  over  bank,   bush, 

and  scaur  ; 
They'll    have  fleel    steeds   that   follow,"  ipioth 

young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting 'mong  Graemes  of  the  Neth- 

ciliy  (dan  ; 
Forstcrs,   Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,   they    rode 
and  they  ran  ; 


B^- 


-W 


a- 


no 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


•^ 


There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannohie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochin- 
var  •  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE   SLEEPING    BEAUTY. 

FROM    "  THE   DAY    DREAM." 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purple  coverlet, 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown  ; 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl ; 
The  slumb'rous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 

The  silk  star-broidered  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould, 
Languidly  ever  ;  and  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets,  downward  rolled, 
Glows  forth  each  softly  shadowed  arm, 

With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright. 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 

She  sleeps  ;  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirred 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  ;  on  either  hand  upswells 

The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly  prest ; 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE   REVIVAL   OF   THE    "SLEEPING 
BEAUTY." 

FROM    "THE    DAY   DREAM." 

A  totjch,  a  kiss  !  the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks  ; 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 

And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks  ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all ; 

A  breeze  through  all  the  garden  swept ; 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall  ; 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 
The  butler  drank,  the  steward  scrawled, 

The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  screamed,  the  peacock  squalled  ; 


The  maid  and  page  renewed  their  strife  ; 

The  palace  banged,  and  buzzed  and  clackt ; 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 

Dashed  downward  in  a  cataract. 

And  last  of  all  the  king  awroke, 

And  in  his  chair  himself  upreared, 
And  yawned,  and  rubbed  his  face,  and  spoke  : 

"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard  ! 
How  say  you  ?  we  have  s^pt,  my  lords; 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'T  was  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 

"  Pardy  !  "  returned  the  king,  "but  still 
My  joints  are  something  stiff  or  so. 

My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 
I  mentioned  half  an  hour  ago  ? " 

The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 
In  courteous  words  returned  reply  ; 

But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  epiestion  by. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE 


'SLEEPING    BEAUTY"   DEPARTS 
WITH    HER   LOVER. 


THE   DAY    DREAM. 


And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold  ; 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old. 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day, 

The  happy  princess  followed  him. 

"I  'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

0  love,  for  such  another  kiss  ! " 
"0  wake  forever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"  0  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  bome, 
And,  streamed  through  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

"  0  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  !  " 

"  0  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  !  " 
"  0  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  !  " 

"  0  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead  !  " 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoyed  the  crescent  bark  ; 
And,  rapt  through  many  a  rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where  ! 
"  0,  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 


rp- 


LOVE. 


11 


•a 


And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 

Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Through  all  the  world  she  followed  him. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE   EVE   OF  ST.    AGNES. 

i. 
St.  Agnes'  Eve,  —  ah,  bitter  chill  it  was 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen 

grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were  the  headman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer 

he  saith. 

II. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 

And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 

Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees  ; 

The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 

Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  ; 

Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 

He  passed  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 

To  tin  nk  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

in. 
Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden  tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor  ; 
But  no,  — already  had  his  death-bell  rung  ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung  ; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve  ; 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  lor  sinners'   sake  to 
grieve. 

IV. 

That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft : 
Ami  so  it  chanced,  lor  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  ; 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  revive  a  thousand  guests  ; 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown   hack,  and  wings  put  crosswise 
on  their  breasts. 

v. 
At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 


The  brain,  new-stuffed,  in  youth,  with  triumphs 

gay 

Of  old  romance.      These  let  us  wish  away  ; 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  de- 
clare. 

VI. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white  ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they 
desire. 

VII. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  ;  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by,  —  she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retired  ;  not  cooled  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not  ;  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 


year. 


vm. 


She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short ; 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand  ;  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport  ; 
Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy  ;  all  amort 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

IX. 

So,  puqiosing  each  moment  to  retire, 

She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 

Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 

For  Madeline.      Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  im- 
plores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madi  line  ; 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That   he  might  gaze  ami  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,   kiss, — in  sooth 
such  things  have  been. 


He  ventures  in  ;  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell  : 
All  eyes  In'  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 

Will  storm  his  heart,  love's  feverous  citadel  ; 


te-- 


w 


118 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  i'oemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
"Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  ;  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
He  startled  her  ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasped  his  lingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saving,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this 

place  ; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  bloodthirsty 

race  ! 

XII. 

"  Get  hence  !  get  hence  !  there  's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land  ; 
Then  there  's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  !  flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away  !  "  —  "  Ah,  gossip  dear, 
We  're  safe  enough  ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how  "  —  "  Good  saints,  not  here,  not 

here  ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy 

bier." 

XIII. 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume  ; 
And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a  —  well-a-day  ! " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"0,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

xiv. 

"  St.  Agnes  !     Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  ; 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
Ami  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  elves  and  fays, 
To  venture  so.     It  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  very  night ;  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time  to 
grieve." 

xv. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 


Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot ;  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art  ! 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !  I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 

XVII. 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear  !  " 
Quoth  Porphyro  ;   "0,  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face  ; 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fanged 
than  wolves  and  bears." 

XVIII. 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll  ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  missed."     Thus  plaining,  doth  she 

bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro  ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride  ; 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  monstrous 
debt. 

xx. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame ; 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly   on  this  feast-night ;    by  the  tambour 
frame 


±r 


LOVE. 


119 


ft 


Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  ;  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait   here,  my  child,  with   patience   kneel   in 

prayer 
The  while.    Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead. " 


XXI. 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed  : 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her  ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The    maiden's    chamber,    silken,    hushed    and 

chaste  ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her 

brain. 

xxir. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware  ; 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ! 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like   a   ring-dove 
frayed  and  fled. 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  ; 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  ; 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in  her 
dell. 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 

Ami  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 

Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 

As  arc  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings; 

And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 

And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 

A  shielded    scutcheon    blushed    with    blood    of 
queens  and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  1> ; 


ta- 


Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint  ; 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.     Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal 
taint. 

XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  ;  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees  ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  ; 
Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is 
fled. 

XXVI  I. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day  ; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray  ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

XXVIII. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Poi-phyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself;  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo  !  —  how 
fast  she  slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 
0  for  some  drowsy  Morpheas  amulet  ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  ;  — 
The  hall-doorshuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered  ; 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  broughl  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 


# 


120 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 

On  gclden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  WTeathed  silver.     Sumptuous  they  stand 

I  n  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  — 

' '  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair  awake  ! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  ; 

Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 

Orl  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

xxxi  r. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 

Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 

By  the  dusk  curtains  ;  —  't  was  a  midnight  charm 

Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 

The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 

Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  ; 

It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 

From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 

So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  called  "La  belle  dame  sans  mercy  "  ; 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ;  — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan  ; 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  ; 
Uponhisknees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep  ; 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep. 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so  dreamingly . 

XXXV. 

"Ah,  Porphyro!"  said  she,  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear  ; 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and 

drear  ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear  ! 


0,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 

For  if  thou  diest,  mylove,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose  ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — ■ 
Solution  sweet ;  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath 
set. 

XXXVII. 
'T  is  dark  ;  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet ; 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  ! " 
'T  is  dark  ;  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine.  — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing  ;  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick,  unpruned  wing. 

XXXVIII. 

' '  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil 

dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest, 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self  ;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  intidel. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall  ! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  ; 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  ; 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  ; 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones  ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

XLII. 

And  they  are  gone  !  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform  ; 
The  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 

John  Keats. 


ff 


MARRIAGE. 


121 


ft 


v 


MARRIAGE 


THOU  HAST  SWORN  BY  THY  GOD,  MY 
JEANIE. 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie, 

By  that  pretty  white  hand  o'  thine, 
And  by  a'  the  lowing  stars  in  heaven, 

That  thou  wad  aye  be  mine  ! 
And  I  hae  sworn  by  my  God,  my  Jeanie, 

And  by  that  kind  heart  o'  thine, 
By  a'  the  stars  sown  thick  owre  heaven, 

That  thou  shalt  aye  be  mine  ? 

Then  foul  fa'  the  hands  that  wad  loose  sic  bands, 

And  the  heart  that  wad  part  sic  hive  ! 
But  there  's  nae  hand  can  loose  my  band, 

But  the  finger  o'  Him  abuve. 
Though  the  wee,  wee  cot  maun  be  my  bield, 

And  my  claithing  ne'er  sae  mean, 
I  wad  lap  me  up  rich  i'  the  faulds  o'  luve,  — 

Heaven's  arrnfu'  o'  my  Jean. 

Her  white  arm  wad  be  a  pillow  for  me, 

Fu'  safter  than  the  down  ; 
And  Luve  wad  winnow  owre  us  his  kind,  kind 
wings, 

And  sweetly  I'd  sleep,  and  soun'. 
Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  o'  my  luve  ! 

<  'uiiie  here  and  kneel  wi'  me  ! 
Tin-  morn  is  fu'  o'  the  presence  o'  God, 

And  I  canna  pray  without  thee. 

The  morn  wind  is  sweet  'mang  the  beds  o'  new 
flowers, 
The  wee  birds  sing  kindlie  and  hie  ; 
Our  gudeman  leans  owre  his  kale-yard  dike, 

Ami  a  blythe  auld  bodie  is  he. 
Tlic  Beuk  maun  be  ta'en  whan  the  carle  comes 
tame, 
"Wi'  tin'  holy  psalmodie  ; 
And  thou  maun  speak  o'  me  to  thy  God, 

And  I  will  speak  o'  thee. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


THE    BRIDE. 

Lo  I  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace, 

Like  Phoebe  from  her  chamber  of  the  cast, 

Arising  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 

Clad  ;ill  in  white,  thai  Beems  a  virgin  best. 

So  wi'll  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  would  ween 

Some  angel  she  had  been. 

Her  long,  loose  yellow  locks,  like  golden  wire, 


Sprinkled  with  pearl,  and  pearling  flowers  atween, 

Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire  ; 

And  being  crowned  with  a  garland  green, 

Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 

Her  modpst  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 

So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare, 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are  ; 

Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold, 

But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so  loud, 

So  far  from  being  proud. 

Nathless  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants'  daughters,  did  ye  see 

So  fair  a  creature  in  your  town  before  ? 

So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  she, 

Adorned  with  Beauty's  grace  and  Virtue's  store  ? 

Her  goodly  eyes  like  sapphires,  shining  bright, 

Her  forehead  ivory  white, 

Her  cheeks  like  apples  which  the  sun  hath  rudded, 

Her  lips  like  cherries  charming  men  to  bite, 

Her  breast  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream  uncrudded, 

Her  paps  like  lilies  budded, 

Her  snowy  neck  like  to  a  marble  tower  ; 

And  all  her  body  like  a  palace  fair, 

Ascending  up  with  many  a  stately  stair 

To  Honor's  seat  and  Chastity's  sweet  bower. 

Why  stand  ye  still,  ye  virgins,  in  amaze, 

Upon  her  so  to  gaze, 

Whilst  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to  sing, 

To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


LOVE. 


THERE  are  who  say  the  lover's  heart 

Is  in  the  loved  one's  merged  ; 
0,  never  by  love's  own  warm  art 

So  cold  a  plea  was  urged  ! 
No  !  — hearts  that  love  hath  crowned  or  crossed, 

Love  fondly  knits  together  ; 
But  not  a  thought  or  hue  is  lost 

That  made  a  part  of  either. 

It  is  an  ill-told  tale  that  tells 

Of  "  hearts  by  love  made  one  "  ; 
Mr  grows  who  near  another's  dwells 

.Mure  conscious  of  his  own  ; 
In  each  spring  up  hew  thoughts  and  powers 

That,  mid  love's  warm,  clear  weather, 
Together  tend  like  climbing  flowers, 

And,  turning,  grow  together. 


&~ 


W 


OO 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


Such  fictions  blink  love's  Letter  part, 

Yield  up  its  half  of  bliss  ; 
The  wells  are  in  the  neighbor  heart 

When  there  is  thirst  in  this  : 
There  findeth  love  the  passion-flowers 

On  which  it  learns  to  thrive, 
Makes  honey  in  another's  bowers, 

But  brings  it  home  to  hive. 

Love's  life  is  in  its  own  replies,  — 

To  each  low  beat  it  beats, 
Smiles  back  the  smiles,  sighs  back  the  sighs, 

And  every  throb  repeats. 
Then,  since  one  loving  heart  still  throws 

Two  shadows  in  love's  sun, 
How  should  two  loving  hearts  compose 


And  mingle  into  one  ? 


Thomas  Kibble  Hervey. 


ADAM   DESCRIBING   EVE. 

Mixe  eyes  he  closed,  but  open  left  the  cell 
Of  fancy,  my  internal  sight,  by  which 
Abstract,  as  in  a  trance,  methought  I  saw, 
Though  sleeping,  where  I  lay,  and  saw  the  shape 
Still  glorious  before  whom  awake  I  stood  ; 
Who,  stooping,  opened  my  left  side,  and  took 
From  thence  a  rib,  with  cordial  spirits  warm, 
And  life-blood  streaming   fresh  ;   wide  was  the 

wound, 
But  suddenly  with  flesh  filled  up  and  healed  : 
The  lib  he  feigned  and  fashioned  with  his  hands  ; 
Under  his  forming  hands  a  creature  grew, 
Manlike,  but  different  sex,  so  lovely  fair, 
That  what  seemed  fair  in  all  the  world  seemed 

aow 
Mean,  or  in  her  snmmed  up,  in  her  contained 
And  in  her  looks,  which  from  that  time  infused 
Sweetness  into  my  heart,  unfelt  before, 
And  into  all  things  from  her  air  inspired 
The  spirit  of  love  and  amorous  delight. 
She  disappeared,  and  left  me  dark  ;  I  waked 
To  find  her,  or  forever  to  deplore 
Her  loss,  and  other  pleasures  all  abjure  : 
When  out  of  hope,  behold  her,  not  far  off, 
Such  as  I  saw  her  in  my  dream,  adorned 
With  what  all  earth  or  Heaven  could  bestow 
To  make  her  amiable.     On  she  came, 
Led  by  her  heavenly  Maker,  though  unseen, 
And  guided  by  his  voice,  nor  uninformed 
Of  nuptial  sanctity  and  marriage  rites  : 
Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  Heaven  in  her  eye., 
In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love. 
I,  overjoyed,  could  not  forbear  aloud  : 

"This  turn  hath  made    amends;   thou   hast 

fulfilled 
Thy  words,  Creator  bounteous  and  benign, 


Giver  of  all  things  fail 


but  fairest  this 
Of  all  thy  gifts,  nor  enviest.     I  now  see 
Bone  of  my  bone,  flesh  of  my  flesh,  myself 
Before  me  ;  Woman  is  her  name,  of  man 
Extracted  :  for  this  cause  he  shall  forego 
Father  and  mother,  and  to  his  wife  adhere  ; 
And  they  shall  be  one  flesh,  one  heart,  one  sold.' 
She    heard    me    thus,    and    though    divinely 

brought, 
Yet  innocence  and  virgin  modesty, 
Her  virtue  and  the  conscience  of  her  worth, 
That  would   be  wooed,   and   not   unsought   be 

won, 
Not  obvious,  not  obtrusive,  but  retired, 
The  more  desirable  ;  or,  to  say  all, 
Nature  herself,  though  pure  of  sinful  thought, 
Wrought  in  her  so,  that,  seeing  me,  she  turned  : 
1  followed  her  ;  she  what  was  honor  knew, 
And  with  obsequious  majesty  approved 
My  pleaded  reason.     To  the  nuptial  bower 
I  led  her  blushing  like  the  morn  :  all  Heaven, 
And  happy  constellations  on  that  hour 
Shed  their  selectest  influence  ;  the  earth 
Gave  sign  of  gratulation,  and  each  hill  ; 
Joyous  the  birds  ;  fresh  gales  and  gentle  airs 
Whispered   it   to    the   woods,    and   from    their 

wings 
Flung  rose,  flung  odors  from  the  spicy  shrub, 
Disporting,  till  the  amorous  bird  of  night 
Sung  spousal,  and  bid  haste  the  evening  star 
On  his  hill-top,  to  light  the  bridal  lamp. 

When  I  approach 
Her  loveliness,  so  absolute  she  seems, 
And  in  herself  complete,  so  well  to  know 
Her  own,  that  what  she  wills  to  do  or  say 
Seems  wisest,  virtuousest,  discreetest,  best ; 
All  higher  knowledge  in  her  presence  falls 
Degraded,  wisdom  in  discourse  with  her 
Loses  discountenanced,  and  like  folly  shdws  ; 
Authority  and  reason  on  her  wait, 
As  one  intended  first,  not  after  made 
Occasionally  ;  and,  to  consummate  all, 
Greatness  of  mind  and  nobleness  their  seat 
Build  in  her  loveliest,  and  create  an  awe 
About  her,  as  a  guard  angelic  placed." 

Neither  her  outside  formed  so  fair,  nor  aught 
In  procreation  common  to  all  kinds, 

So  much  delights  me,  as  those  graceful  acts, 
Those  thousand  decencies  that  daily  flow 
From  all  her  words  and  actions,  mixed  with  love 
Ami  sweet  compliance,  which  declare  unfeigned 
Union  of  mind,  or  in  us  both  one  soul ; 
Harmony  to  behold  in  wedded  pair 
More  grateful  than  harmonious  sound  to  the  ear. 

Milton. 


CIU- 


-EP 


MARRIAGE. 


123 


■a 


ALICE. 

FROM   "ALICE   AND   UNA." 
I. 

Alice  was  a  chieftain's  daughter, 
And  though  many  suitors  sought  her, 
She  so  loved  GlengarifFs  water 

That  she  let  her  lovers  pine. 

Her  eye  was  beauty's  palace, 
And  her  cheek  an  ivory  chalice, 
Through  which  the  blood  of  Alice 

Gleamed  soft  as  rosiest  wine, 

And  her  lips  like  lusmore  blossoms  which  the 
fairies  intertwine,  — 

And  her  heart  a  golden  mine. 

ii. 
She  was  gentler  and  shyer 
Than  the  light  fawn  which  stood  by  her, 
And  her  eyes  emit  a  fire 

Soft  and  tender  as  her  soul  ; 

Love's  dewy  light  doth  drown  her, 
And  the  braided  locks  that  crown  her 
Than  autumn's  trees  are  browner, 

When  the  golden  shadows  roll 

Through  the  forests  in  the  evening,  when  cathe- 
dral turrets  toll, 

And  the  purple  sun  advanceth  to  its  goal. 

ii  r. 

Her  cottage  was  a  dwelling 

All  regal  homes  excelling, 

But,  ah  !  beyond  the  telling 
"Was  the  beauty  round  it  spread,  — 

The  wave  and  sunshine  playing, 

Like  sisters  each  arraying, 

Far  down  the  sea-plants  swaying 
Upon  their  coral  bed, 
And  languid  as  the  tresses  on  a  sleeping  maiden's 

head, 
When  the  summer  breeze  is  dead. 

IV. 

Need  we  say  that  Maurice  loved  her, 
And  that  no  blush  reproved  her, 
When  her  throbbing  bosom  moved  her 

To  give  the  heart  she  gave  ? 

That  by  dawn-light  and  by  twilight, 
And,  0  blessed  moon,  by  thy  light,  — 
When  the  twinkling  stars  on  high  light 

The  wanderer  o'er  the  wave,  — 

His  steps  unconscious  led  him  where  GlengarifTs 
waters  lave 

Each  mossy  bank  and  cave. 


The  sun  bis  gold  is  flinging, 
The  happy  birds  are  singing, 
And  bells  are  gayly  ringing 


Along  GlengarifTs  sea ; 

And  crowds  in  many  a  galley 
To  the  happy  marriage  rally 
Of  the  maiden  of  the  valley 
And  the  youth  of  Ceim-an-eich  ; 
Old  eyes  with  joy  are   weeping,  as   all  ask  on 

bended  knee, 
A  blessing,  gentle  Alice,  upon  thee. 

Denis  Florence  MacCarthy. 


TO   A   LADY   BEFORE  MARRIAGE. 

0,  formed  by  Nature,  and  refined  by  Art, 
With  charms  to  win,  and  sense  to  fix  the  heart ! 
By  thousands  sought,  Clotilda,  canst  thou  free 
Thy  crowd  of  captives  and  descend  to  me  ? 
Content  in  shades  obscure  to  waste  thy  life, 
A  hidden  beauty  and  a  country  wife  ? 
0,  listen  while  thy  summers  are  my  theme  ! 
Ah  i  soothe  thy  partner  in  his  waking  dream ! 
In  some  small  hamlet  on  the  lonely  plain, 
Where  Thames  through  meadows  rolls  his  mazy 

train, 
Or  where  high  Windsor,  thick  with  greens  arrayed, 
Waves  his  old  oaks,  and  spreads  his  ample  shade, 
Fancy  has  figured  out  our  calm  retreat ; 
Already  round  the  visionary  seat 
Our  limes  begin  to  shoot,  our  flowers  to  spring, 
The  brooks  to  murmur,  and  the  birds  to  sing. 
Where  dost  thou  lie,  thou  thinly  peopled  green. 
Thou  nameless  lawn,  and  village  yet  unseen, 
Where  sons,  contented  with  their  native  ground, 
Ne'er  travelled  further  than  ten  furlongs  round, 
And  the  tanned  peasant  and  his  ruddy  bride 
Were  born  together,  and  together  died, 
Where  early  larks  best  tell  the  morning  light, 
And  only  Philomel  disturbs  the  night  ? 
Midst  gardens  here  my  humble  pile  shall  rise, 
With  sweets  surrounded  often  thousand  dyes  ; 
All  savage  where  th'  embroidered  gardens  end, 
The  haunt  of  echoes,  shall  my  woods  ascend  ; 
And  oh  '  if  Heaven  th' ambitious  thought  approve, 
A  rill  shall  warble  'cross  the  gloomy  grove,  — 
A  little  rill,  o'er  pebbly  beds  conveyed, 
Gush  down  the  steep,  and  glitterthrough  theglade. 
What  cheering. scents  these  liordering  banks  exhale! 
How  loud  thai  heifer  lows  from  yonder  vale  I 
Thai  thrush  bow  shrill  !  bis  note  so  clear,  so  high, 
He  drowns  each  feathered  minstrel  of  the  sky. 
Here  lei  me  trace  beneath  the  purpled  morn 
The  deep-mouthed  beagle  and  the  sprightly  horn, 
Or  lure  the  trout  with  well-dissembled  flies, 
Or  fetch  the  fluttering  partridge  from  the  skies. 
Nm-  shall  thy  hand  disdain  to  crop  the  vine, 
The  downy  peach,  or  flavored  nectarine  ; 
Or  roll  the  beehive  of  its  golden  hoard, 
And  hear  th'  unbought  luxuriance  to  thy  board. 


B-- 


--ff 


rfr 


12-4 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


Sometimes  my  books  by  day  shall  kill  the  hours, 
"While  from  thy  needle  rise  the  silken  flowers, 
And  thou,  by  turns,  to  ease  my  feeble  sight, 
Resume  the  volume,  and  deceive  the  night. 
0,  when  I  mark  thy  twinkling  eyes  opprest, 
Soft  whispering,  let  me  warn  my  love  to  rest ; 
Then  watch  thee,  charmed,  while  sleep  locks  every 

sense, 
And  to  sweet  Heaven  commend  thy  innocence. 
Thus  reigned  our  fathers  o'er  the  rural  fold, 
"Wise,  hale,  ami  honest,  in  the  days  of  old  ; 
Till  courts  arose,  where  substance  pays  for  show, 
And  specious  joys  are  bought  with  real  woe. 

Thomas  Tickell. 


0,  LAY  THY   HAND   IN  MINE,  DEAR  ! 

0,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear  ! 

"We  're  growing  old  ; 
But  Time  hath  brought  no  sign,  dear, 

That  hearts  grow  cold. 
'T  is  long,  long  since  our  new  love 

Made  life  divine  ; 
But  age  enricheth  true  love, 

Like  noble  wine. 


And  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine,  dear, 

And  take  thy  rest ; 
Mine  arms  around  thee  twine,  dear, 

And  make  thy  nest. 
A  many  cares  are  pressing 

On  this  dear  head  ; 
But  Sorrow's  hands  in  blessing 

Are  surely  laid. 


0,  lean  thy  life  on  mine,  dear  ! 

'T  will  shelter  thee. 
Thou  wert  a  winsome  vine,  dear, 

On  my  young  tree  : 
And  so,  till  boughs  are  leafless, 

And  songbirds  llown, 
"We  '11  twine,  then  lay  us,  griefless, 

Together  down. 

GERALD  MASSEY. 


THE   BRIDE. 

FROM  A  BALLAD  UPON  A  WEDDING. 

The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  n  tale, 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 
Could  ever  yet  produce  ■ 


No  grape  that 's  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 
Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 

Would  not  stay  on  which  they  did  bring,  — 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck  ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  —  for  out  it  must,  — 
It  looked  like  the  great  collar  —  just  — 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light ; 
But  0,  she  dances  such  a  way  ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison  ; 

WTho  sees  them  is  undone  ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Cath'rine  pear, 

The  side  that 's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  were  red  ;  and  one  was  thin, 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin. 

Some  bee,  had  stung  it  newly  ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze, 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak, 
Thou'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break, 

That  they  might  passage  get  ; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better. 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 

sir  John  Suckling. 


HEBREW   WTEDDING. 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet 
Moving  slow  our  solemn  feet, 
We  have  borne  thee  on  the  road 
To  the  virgin's  blest  abode  ; 
With  thy  yellow  torches  gleaming, 
And  thy  scarlet  mantle  streaming, 
And  the  canopy  above 
Swaying  as  we  slowly  move. 

Thou  hast  left  the  joyous  feast, 
And  the  mirth  and  wine  have  ceased  ; 
And  now  we  set  thee  down  before 
The  jealously  unclosing  door, 
That  the  favored  youth  admits 
AVhere  the  veiled  virgin  sits 
In  the  bliss  of  maiden  fear, 
Waiting  our  soft  tread  to  hear, 


ta- 


■ff 


MARRIAGE. 


ta 


125 


And  the  music's  brisker  din 
At  the  bridegroom's  entering  in, 
Entering  in,  a  welcome  guest, 
To  the  chamber  of  his  rest. 

CHORUS   OP    MAIDENS. 

Now  the  jocund  song  is  thine, 

Bride  of  David's  kingly  line  ; 

How  thy  dove-like  bosom  trembleth, 

And  thy  shrouded  eye  resembleth 

Violets,  when  the  dews  of  eve 

A  moist  and  tremulous  glitter  leave 

On  the  bashful  sealed  lid  ! 
Close  within  the  bride-veil  hid, 
Motionless  thou  sitt'st  and  mute  ; 
Save  that  at  the  soft  salute 
Of  each  entering  maiden  friend, 
Thou  dost  rise  and  softly  bend. 

Hark  !  a  brisker,  merrier  glee  ! 
The  door  unfolds,  —  't  is  he  !  't  is  he  ! 
Thus  we  lift  our  lamps  to  meet  him, 
Thus  we  touch  our  lutes  to  greet  him. 
Thou  shalt  give  a  fonder  meeting, 

Thou  shalt  give  a  tenderer  greeting. 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 


WIFE,    CHILDREN,    AND   FRIENDS. 

When  the  blackdettered  list  to  the  gods  was  pre- 
sented 
(The  list  of  what  fate  for  each  mortal  intends), 
At  the  long  string  of  ills  a  kind  goddess  relented, 
And  slipped  in  three  blessings,  —  wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

In  vain  surely  Pluto  maintained  he  was  cheated, 
For  justice  divine  could  not  compass  its  ends. 

The  scheme  of  man's  penance  he  swore  was  defeated, 
Fur  earth  becomes  heaven  with  —  wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

1 1  i  he  stock  of  our  bliss  is  in  stranger  hands  vested, 
The  fund  ill  secured,  oft  in  bankruptcy  ends  ; 

Butthehearl  issues  bills  which  are  never  protested, 
When  drawn  on  the  firm  of— wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

The  day-spring  of  youth  still  unclouded  by  sorrow, 

Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends  ; 
But  drear  is  the  twilighl  of  age  if  it  borrow 
No  warmth  from  the  smile  of      wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

William  Robert  spenckr. 


MARRIAGE. 


HUMAN    LIFE. 


Then  before  All  they  stand,  —  the  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now, 
Bind  her  as  his.     Across  the  threshold  led, 
And  every  tear  kissed  off  as  soon  as  shed, 
His  house  she  enters,  —  there  to  be  a  light, 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night ; 
A  guardian  angel  o'er  his  life  presiding, 
Doubling  his  pleasures  and  his  cares  dividing, 
Winning  him  back  when  mingling  in  the  throng, 
Back  from  a  world  we  love,  alas  !  too  lone. 
To  fireside  happiness,  to  hours  of  ease, 
Blest  with  that  charm,  the  certainty  to  please. 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his  ;  her  gentle  mind 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclined  ; 
Still  subject,  —  ever  on  the  watch  to  borrow 
Mirth  of  his  mirth  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow  ! 
The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell, 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell, 
And  feeling  hearts  —  touch  them  but  rightly  — 
pour 

A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 


CONNUBIAL  LIFE. 

FROM    "  THE   SEASONS." 

But  happy  they  !  the  happiest  of  their  kind  ! 
Whom  gentler  stars  unite,  and  in  one  fate 
Theirhearts,  their  fortunes,  and  their  beings  blend. 

'T  is  not  the  coarser  tie  of  human  laws, 
•  Unnatural  oft,  and  foreign  to  the  mind, 
That  binds  their  peace,  but  harmony  itself, 
Attuning  all  their  passions  into  love  ; 
Where  friendship  full-exerts  her  softest  power, 
Perfect  esteem  enlivened  by  desire 
Ineffable,  and  sympathy  of  soul  ; 
Thought  meeting  thought,  and  will  preventing 

will, 
With  boundless  confidence  :  for  naught  but  love 
Can  answer  love,  and  render  bliss  secure. 
Meantime  a  smiling  offspring  rises  round, 
And  mingles  both  their  graces.     By  degrees, 
The  human  blossom  blows  ;  and  every  day, 
Soft  as  it  rolls  along,  shows  some  new  (harm, 
The  lather's  lustre  and  the  mother's  bloom. 
Then  infant  reason  grows  apace,  and  rails 
For  the  kind  hand  of  an  assiduous  care. 

Delightful  task  :  to  rear  the  tender  thought, 
To  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot, 
To  pour  the  fresh  instruction  o'er  the  mind, 
To  breathe  the  enlivening  spirit,  and  to  fix 
The  generous  purpose  in  the  glowing  breast. 

O,  speak  the1  joy  !    ye  whom  the  sudden  tear 


--ff 


cl 


126 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


Surprises  often,  while  you  look  around, 
And  nothing  strikes  your  eye  hut  sights  of  hliss, 
All  various  Nature  pressing  on  the  heart ; 
An  elegant  sufficiency,  content, 
Retirement,  rural  quiet,  friendship,  hooks, 
Ease  and  alternate  lahor,  useful  life, 
Progressive  virtue,  and  approving  Heaven. 
These  are  the  matchless  joys  of  virtuous  love  ; 
And  thus  their  moments  fly.     The  Seasons  thus, 
As  ceaseless  round  a  jarring  world  they  roll, 
Still  find  them  happy  ;  and  consenting  Spring 
Sheds  her  own  rosy  garland  on  their  heads  : 
Till  evening  conies  at  last,  serene  and  mild  ; 
When  after  the  long  vernal  day  of  life, 
Enamored  more,  as  more  rememhrance  swells 
With  many  a  proof  of  recollected  love, 
Together  down  they  sink  in  social  sleep  ; 
Together  freed,  their  gentle  spirits  fly 

To  scenes  where  love  and  hliss  immortal  reign. 

James  Thomson. 


THE   BANKS   OF   THE   LEE. 

Air,  "a  trip  to  the  cottage." 

0  the  hanks  of  the  Lee,  the  banks  of  the  Lee, 
And  love  in  a  cottage  for  Mary  and  me  ! 
There  's  not  in  the  land  a  lovelier  tide, 
And  I  'insure  thatthere'snooneso  fair  as  my  bride. 

She 's  modest  and  meek, 

There  's  a  down  on  her  cheek, 

And  her  skin  is  as  sleek 
As  a  butterfly's  wing  ; 

Then  her  step  would  scarce  show 

On  the  fresh -fallen  snow, 

And  her  whisper  is  low, 

But  as  clear  as  the  spring. 

0  the  banks  of  the  Lee,  the  banks  of  the  Lee, 
And  love  in  a  cottage  for  Mary  and  me  ! 

1  know  not  how  love  is  happy  elsewhere, 
I  know  not  how  any  but  lovers  are  there. 

0,  so  green  is  the  grass,  so  clear  is  the  stream, 
So  mild  is  the  mist  and  so  rich  is  the  beam, 
That  beauty  should  never  to  other  lands  roam, 
But  make  on  the  banks  of  our  river  its  home  ! 

When,  dripping  with  dew, 

The  roses  peep  through, 

'T  is  to  look  in  at  you 

They  are  growing  so  fast ; 

While  the  scent  of  the  flowers 

Must  be  hoarded  for  hours, 

'T  is  poured  in  such  showers 
When  my  Mary  goes  past. 
0  the  banks  of  the  Lee,  the  banks  of  the  Lee, 
And  love  in  a  cottage  for  Mary  and  me  ! 
0,  Mary  for  me,  Mary  for  me, 
And  't  is  little  I  'd  sigh  for  the  banks  of  the  Lee  ! 

Thomas  Davis. 


MY   WIFE'S   A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 

I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer, 

And  neist  my  heart  I  '11  wear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't : 
Wi'  her  I  '11  blythely  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 

Robert  Burns. 


SONNETS. 

My  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die  ; 
Albeit  I  ask  no  fairer  life  than  this, 
Whose  numbering-clock  is  still  thy  gentle  kiss, 
While  Time  and  Peace  with  hands  unlocked  fly,  — 
Yet  care  I  not  where  in  Eternity 
We  live  and  love,  well  knowing  that  there  is 
No  backward  step  for  those  who  feel  the  bliss 
Of  Faith  as  their  most  lofty  yearnings  high  : 
Love  hath  so  purified  my  being's  core, 
Meseems  I  scarcely  should  be  startled,  even, 
To  find,  some  morn,  that  thou  hadst  gone  before  ; 
Since,  with  thy  love,   this  knowledge  too  was 

given, 
Which  each  calm  day  doth  strengthen  more  and 

more, 
That  they  who  love  are  but  one  step  from  Heaven. 


I  cannot  think  that  thou  shouldst  pass  away, 

Whose  life  to  mine  is  an  eternal  law, 

A  piece  of  nature  that  can  have  no  flaw, 

A  new  and  certain  sunrise  every  day  ; 

But,  if  thou  art  to  be  another  ray 

About  the  Sun  of  Life,  and  art  to  live 

Free  from  all  of  thee  that  was  fugitive, 

The  debt  of  Love  I  will  more  fully  pay, 

Not  downcast  with  the  thought  of  thee  so  high, 

But  rather  raised  to  be  a  nobler  man, 

And  more  divine  in  my  humanity, 

As  knowing  that  the  waiting  eyes  which  scan 

My  life  are  lighted  by  a  purer  being, 

And  ask  meek,  calm-browed  deeds,  with  it  agree- 


-B1 


THE     BANKS    OF    THE     LEE. 

"  So  green  is  the  grass,  so  clear  is  the  stream, 
So  miltl  is  the  mist  and  so  rich  is  the  6  am. 

That  beauty  slum/,/  never  to  oilier  lauds  roam, 
But  make  on  the  banks  of  our  river  its  horn    .'  ' 


r 


MARRIAGE. 


12' 


ft 


There  never  yet  was  flower  fair  in  vain, 

Let  elassic  poets  rhyme  it  as  they  will  ; 

The  seasons  toil  that  it  may  blow  again, 

And  summer's  heart  doth  feel  its  every  ill ; 

Nor  is  a  true  soul  ever  born  for  naught  : 

Wherever  any  such  hath  lived  and  died, 

There   hath  been   something  for   true   freedom 

wrought, 
Some  bulwark  levelled  on  the  evil  side  : 
Toil  on,  then,  Greatness  !  thou  art  in  the  right, 
However  narrow  souls  may  call  thee  wrong  : 
Be  as  thou  wouldst  be  in  thine  own  clear  sight, 
And  so  thou  wilt  in  all  the  world's  erelong : 
For  worldlings  cannot,  struggle  as  they  may, 
From  man's  great  soul  one  great  thought  hide  away. 


I  thought  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err  ; 
Joy's  wreath  drooped  o'er  mine  eyes  ;  I  could  not 

see 
That  sorrow  in  our  happy  world  must  be 
Love's  deepest  spokesman  and  interpreter  ? 
But,  as  a  mother  feels  her  child  first  stir 
Under  her  heart,  so  felt  I  instantly 
Deep  in  my  soul  another  bond  to  thee 
Thrill  with  that  life  we  saw  depart  from  her ; 
0  mother  of  our  angel  child  !  twice  dear  ! 
Death  knits  as  well  as  parts,  and  still,  I  wis, 
'  Her  tender  radince  shall  infold  us  here, 
Even  as  the  light,  borne  up  by  inward  bliss, 
Threads  the  void  glooms  of  space  without  a  fear, 

To  print  on  farthest  stars  her  pitying  kiss. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


POSSESSION. 


"  It  was  our  wedding-day 

A  month  ago,"  dear  heart,  I  hear  you  say. 

If  months,  or  years,  or  ages  since  have  passed, 

I  know  not  :  1  have  ceased  to  question  Time. 

I  only  know  that  once  there  pealed  a  chime 

Of  joyous  bells,  and  then   I   held  you  fast, 

And  all  stood  back,  and  none  my  right  denied, 

And  forth  we  walked  :   the  world  was  free  and  wide 

Before  us.     Since  that  day 

1  count  my  life  :  the  Fast  is  washed  away. 

II. 

It  was  no  dream,  that  vow  : 

It  was  tile  voice  that  woke  me  from  a  dream,  — 

A  happy  dream,  I  think  ;   hut  I  am  waking  now, 

And  drink  the  splendor  of  a  sun  supreme 

That  turns  the  mist  of  lorinei-  tears  to  gold. 

Within  these  arms  1  hold 

The  fleeting  promise,  chased  so  long  in  vain  : 


Ah,  weary  bird  !  thou  wilt  not  fly  again  : 
Thy  wings  are  clipped,  thou  canst  no  more  de- 
part, — 
Thy  nest  is  builded  in  my  heart  ! 

in. 

I  was  the  crescent ;  thou 

The  silver  phantom  of  the  perfect  sphere, 

Held  in  its  bosom  :  in  one  glory  now 

Our  lives  united  shine,  and  many  a  year  — 

Not  the  sweet  moon  of  bridal  only  —  we 

One  lustre,  ever  at  the  full,  shall  be  : 

One  pure  and  rounded  light,  one  planet  whole, 

One  life  developed,  one  completed  soul  ! 

For  I  in  thee,  and  thou  in  me, 

Unite  our  cloven  halves  of  destiny. 

IV. 

God  knew  his  chosen  time. 

He  bade  me  slowly  ripen  to  my  prime, 

And  from  my  boughs  withheld  the  promised  fruit, 

Till  storm  and  sun  gave  vigor  to  the  root. 

Secure,  0  Love  !  secure 

Thy  blessing  is  :  I  have  thee  day  and  night  : 

Thou  art  become  my  blood,  my  life,  my  light  : 

God's  mercy  thou,  and  therefore  shalt  endure. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


THE  DAY  RETURNS,  MY  BOSOM  BURNS. 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet ; 
Though  winter  wild  in  tempest  toiled, 

Ne'er  summer  sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 
Than  a'  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide, 

And  crosses  o'er  the  sultry  line,  — - 
Than  kingly  robes,  and  crowns  and  globes, 

Heaven  gave  me  more  ;  it  made  thee  mine. 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight, 
Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give,  — 

While  joys  above  my  mind  can  move, 
For  thee  and  thee  alone  I  live  ; 

When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 
Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part, 

The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 

It  breaks  my  bliss,  — it  breaks  my  heart. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   FOF.T'S   BRIDAL-DAY   SONG. 

0,  MY  love  's  like  the  steadfast  sun, 
Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run  ; 
Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 
Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears, 
Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  days  of  pain, 
Nor  dreams  of  glory  dreamed  in  vain, 


■ff 


£r~ 


12S 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-ft 


•Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  that  flows 
To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes, 
Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee, 
One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I  muse,  I  see  thee  sit 

In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit ; 

Fair,  gentle  as  when  first  I  sued, 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood  ; 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 

As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree, 

We  stayed  and  wooed,  and  thought  the  moon 

Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon  ; 

Or  lingered  mid  the  falling  dew, 

When  looks  were  fond  and  words  were  few. 

Though  I  see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet, 
And  time,  and  care,  and  birthtime  woes 
Have  dimmed  thine  eye  and  touched  thy  rose, 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
Whate'er  charms  me  in  tale  or  song. 
When  words  descend  like  dews,  unsought, 
With  gleams  of  deep,  enthusiast  thought, 
And  fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free, 
They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

O,  when  more  thought  we  gave,  of  old, 
To  silver,  than  some  give  to  gold, 
'T  was  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o'er 
How  we  should  deck  our  humble  bower  ; 
'T  was  sweet  to  pull,  in  hope,  with  thee, 
The  golden  fruit  of  fortune's  tree  ; 
And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 
A  garland  for  that  brow  of  thine,  — 
A  song-wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 
While  rivers  flow,  and  woods  grow  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought, 
When  fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light ; 
And  hope,  that  decks  the  peasant's  bower, 
Shines  like  a  rainbow  through  the  shower  ; 

0  then  I  see,  while  seated  nigh, 

A  mother's  heart  shine  in  thine  eye, 
And  proud  resolve  and  purpose  meek, 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak. 

1  think  this  wedded  wife  of  mine, 
The  best  of  all  that 's  not  divine. 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


THE  POET'S  SONG  TO   HIS  WIFE. 

How  many  summers,  love, 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
How  many  days,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine  ? 


Time,  like  the  winged  wind 

When  't  bends  the  flowers, 
Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 

To  count  the  hours  ! 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loath, 

On  thee  he  leaves  ; 
Some  lines  of  care  round  both 

Perhaps  he  weaves  ; 
Some  fears,  —  a  soft  regret 

For  joys  scarce  known  ; 
Sweet  looks  we  half  forget  ;  — 

All  else  is  flown  ! 

Ah  !  —  With  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing  ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudden  spring  ! 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  I  owe 

To  thee  and  time  !  , 

Barry  Cornwall. 


IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE,  MY  LOVE. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 
How  fast  would  evening  fail 

In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove, 
Listening  the  nightingale  ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 
How  gayly  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  Gunga's  mimic  sea  ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 
When,  on  our  deck  reclined, 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay 
And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 

My  twilight  steps  I  guide, 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam 

I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 
The  lingering  noon  to  cheer, 

But  miss  thy  kind,  approving  eye, 
Thy  meek,  attentive  ear. 

But  when  at  morn  and  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on  !  then  on  !  where  duty  leads, 

My  course  be  onward  still, 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads. 

O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 


ta- 


~ff 


MARRIAGE. 


129 


ft 


That  course  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates, 

Nor  mild  Malwah  detain  ; 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea  ; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  ! 

REGINALD  HBBER. 


JOHN   ANDERSON,    MY  JO. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent  ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw  ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither  ; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither. 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go  : 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


THE   WORN   WEDDING-RING. 


ah, 


Your  wedding-ring  wears  thin,  dear  wife 

summers  not  a  few, 
Since  I  put  it  on  your  finger  first,  have  passed 

o'er  me  and  you  ; 
And,  love,  what  changes  we  have  seen,  —  what 

cares  and  pleasures,  too,  — 
Since  you  became  my  own  dear  wife,  when  this 

old  ring  was  new  ! 

0,  blessings  on  that  happy  day,  the  happiest  of 

my  life, 
Winn,  thanks  to  God,  your  low,  sweet  "Yes" 

made  you  my  loving  wife  ! 
Your   heart  will  say  the  same,   I    know  ;   that 

day 's  as  dear  to  you,  — 
That  day  that  made  me  yours,  dear  wife,  when 

this  old  rine  was  new. 


How  well  do  I  remember  now  your  young  sweet 

face  that  day  ! 
How   fair   you    were,   bow  dear  you  were,  my 

tongue  could  hardly  say  ; 


Nor  how  I  doated  on  you  ;  0,  how  proud  I  was 

of  you  ! 
But  did  I  love  you  more  than  now,  when  this 

old  ring  was  new  ? 

No  —  no  !  no  fairer  were  you  then  than  at  this 

hour  to  me  ; 
And,  dear  as  life  to  me  this  day,  how  could  you 

dearer  be  ? 
As  sweet  your  face  might  be  that  day  as  now  it 

is,  't  is  true  ; 
But  did  I  know  your  heart  as  well  when  this  old 

ring  was  new  ? 

0  partner  of  my  gladness,  wife,  what  care,  what 

grief  is  there 
For  me  you  would  not  bravely  face,  with  me 

you  would  not  share  ? 
0,  what  a  weary  want  had  every  day,  if  wanting 

you, 

Wanting  the  love  that  God  made  mine  when 
this  old  ring  was  new  ! 

Years  bring  fresh  links  to  bind  us,  wife,  —  young 

voices  that  are  here ; 
Young   faces   round   our   fire   that   make  their 

mother's  yet  more  dear  ; 
Young  loving  hearts  your  care  each  day  makes 

yet  more  like  to  you, 
More  like  the  loving  heart  made  mine  when  this 

old  ring  was  new. 

And  blessed  be  God  !  all  he  has  given  are  -with 

us  yet ;  around 
Our  table  every  precious  life  lent  to  us  still  is 

found. 
Though  cares  we  've  known,  with  hopeful  hearts 

the  worst  we  've  struggled  through  ; 
Blessed  be  his  name  for  all  his  love  since  this 

old  ring  was  new  ! 

The  past  is  dear,  its  sweetness  still  our  memo- 
ries treasure  yet ; 

The  griefs  we  've  borne,  together  borne,  we  would 
not  now  forget. 

Whatever,  wife,  the  future  brings,  heart  unto 
heart  still  true, 

We  '11  share  as  we  have  shared  all  else  since  this 
old  ring  was  new. 


Ami  if  God  spare  us  'mongst  our  sons  and  daugh- 
ters to  grow  old, 

We  know  his  goodness  will  not  let  your  heart 
or  mine  grow  cold. 


■ff 


130 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■ft 


Your  aged  eyes  will  see  in  mine  all  they've  still 

shown  to  you, 
And  mine  in  yours  all  they  have  seen  since  this 

old  ring  was  new. 

And  0,  when  death  shall  come  at  last  to  bid  me 

to  my  rest, 
May  I  die  looking  in  those  eyes,  and  resting  on 

that  breast ; 
0,  may  my  parting  gaze  be  blessed  with  the  dear 

sight  of  you, 

Of  those  fond  eyes,  —  fond  as  they  were  when 

this  old  ring  was  new  ! 

William  Cox  Bennett. 


MARIE   BHAN   ASTOR. 

"  FAIR    MARY,    MY   TREASURE." 
I. 

In  a  valley  far  away 

With  my  Maire  bhan  astor, 
Short  would  be  the  summer-day, 

Ever  loving  more  and  more  ; 
Winter  days  would  all  grow  long, 

With  the  light  her  heart  would  pour, 
With  her  kisses  and  her  song, 
And  her  loving  mait  go  leor. 
Fond  is  Maire  bhan  astor, 
Fair  is  Maire  bhan  astor, 
Sweet  as  ripple  on  the  shore, 
Sings  my  Maire  bhan  astor. 

II. 

O,  her  sire  is  very  proud, 

And  her  mother  cold  as  stone  ; 
But  her  brother  bravely  vowed 

She  should  be  my  bride  alone  ; 
For  he  knew  I  loved  her  well, 

And  he  knew  she  loved  me  too, 
So  he  sought  their  pride  to  quell, 
But  't  was  all  in  vain  to  sue. 
True  is  Maire  bhan  astor, 
Tried  is  Maire  bhan  astor, 
Had  I  wings  I  'd  never  soar 
From  my  Maire  bhan  astor. 

in. 

There  are  lands  where  manly  toil 

Surely  reaps  the  crop  it  sows, 
Glorious  woods  and  teeming  soil, 

Where  the  broad  Missouri  flows  ; 
Through  the  trees  the  smoke  shall  rise, 

From  our  hearth  with  mait  go  leor, 
There  shall  shine  the  happy  eyes 

Of  my  Maire  bhan  astor. 


Mild  is  Maire  bhan  astor, 
Mine  is  Maire  bhan  astor, 
Saints  will  watch  about  the  door 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  astor. 

Thomas  Davis. 


ADAM   TO   EVE. 

0  FAIREST  of  creation,  last  and  best 
Of  all  God's  works,  creature  in  whom  excelled 
Whatever  can  to  sight  or  thought  be  formed, 
Holy,  divine,  good,  amiable,  or  sweet ! 
How  art  thou  lost,  how  on  a  sudden  lost, 
Defaced,  deflowered,  and  now  to  death  devote  ! 
Rather,  how  hast  thou  yielded  to  transgress 
The  strict  forbiddance,  how  to  violate 
The  sacred  fruit  forbidden  !  Some  cursed  fraud 
Of  enemy  hath  beguiled  thee,  yet  unknown, 
And  me  with  thee  hath  ruined,  for  with  thee 
Certain  my  resolution  is  to  die. 
How  can  I  live  without  thee,  how  forego 
Thy  sweet  converse,  and  love  so  dearly  joined, 
To  live  again  in  these  wild  woods  forlorn  ? 
Should  God  create  another  Eve,  and  I 
Another  rib  afford,  yet  loss  of  thee 
Would  never  from  my  heart  ;  no,  no,  I  feel 
The  link  of  nature  draw  me  :  flesh  of  flesh, 
Bone  of  my  bone  thou  art,  and  from  thy  state 
Mine  never  shall  be  parted,  bliss  or  woe. 

However,  I  with  thee  have  fixed  my  lot, 

Certain  to  undergo  like  doom  ;  if  death 

Consort  with  thee,  death  is  to  me  as  life  ; 

So  forcible  within  my  heart  I  feel 

The  bond  of  nature  draw  me  to  my  own, 

My  own  in  thee,  for  what  thou  art  is  mine  ; 

Our  state  cannot  be  severed,  we  are  one, 

One  flesh  ;  to  lose  thee  were  to  lose  myself. 

Milton. 


PORTIA   AND    BRUTUS. 

FROM    "  JULIUS   CJESAR." 

Portia.   Brutus,  my  lord  ! 

Brutus.   Portia,  what  mean  you  ?    Wherefore 
rise  you  now  ? 
It  is  not  for  your  health  thus  to  commit 
Your  weak  condition  to  the  raw-cold  morning. 

Por.  Nor  for  yours  neither.     You  have  un- 
gently,  Brutus, 
Stole  from  my  bed  :    And  yesternight,  at  supper, 
You  suddenly  arose,  and  walked  about, 
Musing,  and  sighing,  with  your  arms  across  ; 
And  when  I  asked  you  what  the  matter  was, 
You  stared  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks  : 
I  urged  you  further ;  then  you  scratched  your  head, 


tfl- 


& 


MARRIAGE. 


131 


-a 


And  too  impatiently  stamped  with  your  foot  : 
Yet  I  insisted,  yet  you  answered  not ; 
But,  with  an  angry  wafture  of  your  hand, 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you  :     So  I  did  ; 
Fearing  to  strengthen  .that  impatience, 
Which  seemed  too  much  enkindled  ;  and  withal 
Hoping  it  was  but  an  effect  of  humor, 
Which    sometime    hath    his    hour  with    every 


man. 


It  will  not  let  you  eat,  nor  talk,  nor  sleep, 
And,  could  it  work  so  much  upon  your  shape, 
As  it  hath  much  prevailed  on  your  condition, 
I  should  not  know  you,  Brutus.     Dear  my  lord, 
Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

Buu.   I  am  not  well  in  health,  and  that  is 
all. 

Pou.   Brutus  is  wise,  and  were  he  not  in  health, 
He  would  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it. 

Buu.  Why,  so  I  do  :  — good  Portia,  go  to  bed. 

Pur.   Is  Brutus  sick,  —  and  is  it  physical 
To  walk  unbraced,  and  suck  up  the  humors 
Of  the  dank  morning  ?    What,  is  Brutus  sick,  — 
And  will  he  steal  out  of  his  wholesome*  bed, 
-  To  dare  the  vile  contagion  of  the  night, 
And  tempt  the  rheumy  and  unpurged  air 
To  add  unto  his  sickness  ?     No,  my  Brutus  ; 
You  have  some  sick  offence  within  your  mind, 
Which,  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place, 
I  ought  to  know  of:     And  upon  my  knees 
I  charm  you,  by  my  once  commended  beauty, 
By  all  your  vows  of  love,  and  that  great  vow 
Which  did  incorporate  and  make  lis  one, 
That  you  unfold  to  me,  yourself,  your  half, 
Why  you  are  heavy  ;  and  what  men  to-night 
Have  had  resort  to  you,  —  for  here  have  been 
Some  six  or  seven,  who  did  hide  their  faces 
Even  from  darkness. 

Bnu.  Kneel  not,  gentle  Portia. 

Pent.   I  should  not  need,  if  you  were  gentle 
Brutus. 
Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  me,  Brutus, 
Is  it  expected,  I  should  know  no  secrets 
That  appertain  to  you  ?    Am  I  yourself 
But,  as  it  were,  in  sort  or  limitation,  — 
To  kcc|)  with  you  at  meals,  comfort  your  bed, 
And  talk  to  you  sometimes  ?     Dwell  I  but  in  the 

suburbs 
Of  your  good  pleasure  ?     If  it  be  no  more, 
Portia  is  Brutus'  harlot,  not  his  wife. 

Buu.  You  are  my  true  and  honorable  wife  ; 
As  dear  to  me,  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
Thai  visit  my  sad  heart. 

Puu.    If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know 
this  secret. 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman  ;  but,  withal, 
A  woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife  : 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman  ;   but,  withal, 
A  woman  well-reputed,  Cato'a  'laughter. 


Think  you,  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex, 

Being  so  fathered,  and  so  husbanded  ? 

Tell  me  your  counsels,  I  will  not  disclose  them. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


LORD  WALTER'S  WIFE. 


' '  But  why  do  you  go  ? "  said  the  lady,  while  both 

sate  under  the  yew, 
And  her  eyes  were  alive  in  their  depth,  as  the 

kraken  beneath  the  sea-blue. 

ii. 

"  Because  I  fear  you,"  he  answered  ;  —  "  because 

you  are  far  too  fair, 
And  able  to  strangle  my  soul  in  a  mesh  of  your 

gold-colored  hair." 

III. 

"0  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  reason  !  Such  knots 

are  quickly  undone, 
And  too  much  beauty,  I  reckon,  is  nothing  but 

too  much  sun." 

IV. 

"Yet  farewell  so,"  he  answered;  —  "the  sun- 
stroke 's  fatal  at  times. 

I  value  your  husband,  Lord  Walter,  whose  gallop 
rings  still  from  the  limes." 

v. 

"0  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  reason.  You  smell 
a  rose  through  a  fence  : 

If  two  should  smell  it,  what  matter  ?  who  grum- 
bles, and  where 's  the  pretence  ? " 

VI. 

"But  I,"  he  replied,  "have  promised  another, 

when  love  was  free, 
To  love  her  alone,  alone,  who  alone  and  afar  loves 

me." 

VII. 

"Why,  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  reason.     Love  'a 

always  free,  I  am  told. 
Will  you  vow  to  be  safe  from  the  headache  on 

Tuesday,  and  think  it  will  hold  ? " 

VIII. 

"But  you,"  he  replied,  "have  a  daughter,  a 
young  little  child,  who  was  laid 

In  your  lap  to  he  pure;  so  I  leave  you  :  the  an- 
gels would  make  me  afraid." 

IX. 

"0  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  reason.     The  angels 

keep  out  of  the  way  ; 
And  Dora,  (lie  child,  observes  nothing,  although 

you  should  please  me  and  stay." 


B-- 


~4? 


£h 


& 


132 


POEMS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


x. 


At  -which  he  rose  up  in  his  anger,  —  "  Why,  now, 

you  no  longer  are.  fair  ! 
Why,  now,  you  no  longer  are  fatal,  but  ugly  and 

hateful,  I  swear." 


XI. 


At  which  she  laughed  out  in  her  scorn,  — "  These 

men  !  0,  these  men  overnice, 
Who  are  shocked  if  a  color  not  virtuous  is  frankly 

put  on  by  a  vice." 


XII. 


Her  eyes  blazed  upon  him  —  "  And  you  !  You 

bring  us  your  vices  so  near 
That  we  smell  them  !  You  think  in  our  presence 

a  thought  't  would  defame  us  to  hear  ! 


XIII. 


"  What  reason  had  you,  and  what  right,  —  I  ap- 
peal to  your  soul  from  my  life,  — 

To  find  me  too  fair  as  a  woman  ?  Why,  sir,  I  am 
pure,  and  a  -wife. 


xiv. 


"  Is  the  day-star  too  fair  up  above  you  ?  It  burns 

you  not.     Dare  you  imply 
I  brushed  you  more  close  than  the  star  does,  when 

Walter  had  set  me  as  high  ? 


xv. 


"  If  a  man  finds  a  woman  too  fair,  he  means  sim- 
ply adapted  too  much 

To  uses  unlawful  and  fatal.  The  praise  !  —  shall 
I  thank  you  for  such  ? 


XVI. 


' '  Too  fair  ? — not  unless  you  misuse  us !  and  surely 

if,  once  in  a  while, 
You  attain  to  it,  straightway  you  call  us  no  longer 

too  fair,  but  too  vile. 


XVII. 


"  A  moment,  —  I  pray  your  attention  !  —  I  have 

a  poor  word  in  my  head 
I  must  utter,  though  womanly  custom  would  set 

it  down  better  unsaid. 


XVIII. 


"  You  grew,  sir,  pale  to  impertinence,  once  when 
I  showed  you  a  ring. 

You  kissed  my  fan  when  I  dropped  it.  No  mat- 
ter !  I  've  broken  the  thing. 


XIX. 


"You  did  me  the  honor,  perhaps,  to  be  moved  at 

my  side  now  and  then 
In  the  senses,  —  a  vice,  I  have  heard,  which  is 

common  to  beasts  and  some  men. 


XX. 


"  Love  's  a  virtue  for  heroes  !  —  as  white  as  the 
snow  on  high  hills, 

And  immortal  as  every  great  soul  is  that  strug- 
gles, endures,  and  fulfils. 


XXI. 


"  I  love  my  Walter  profoundly,  — you,  Maude, 

though  you  faltered  a  week, 
For  the  sake  of .  .  .  what  was  it  ?  an  eyebrow  ?  or, 

less  still,  a  mole  on  a  cheek  ? 


XXII. 


"  And  since,  when  all 's  said,  you  're  too  noble  to 

stoop  to  the  frivolous  cant 
About  crimes  irresistible,  virtues  that  swindle, 

betray,  and  supplant, 


XXIII. 


"  I  determined  to  prove  to  yourself  that,  whate'er 

you  might  dream  or  avow 
By  illusion,  you  wanted  precisely  no  more  of  me 

than  you  have  now. 


XXIV. 


"  There  !  Look  me  full  in  the  face  !  —  in  the  face. 

Understand,  if  you  can, 
That  the  eyes  of  such  women  as  I  am  are  clean 

as  the  palm  of  a  man. 


xxv. 


"  Drop  his  hand,  you  insult  him.  Avoid  us  for 
fear  we  should  cost  you  a  scar,  — 

You  take  us  for  harlots,  I  tell  you,  and  not  for 
the  women  we  are. 

XXVI. 

"  You  -wronged  me  :    but  then  I  considered... 

there 's  Walter  !     And  so  at  the  end, 
I  vowed  that  he  should  not  be  mulcted,  by  me, 

in  the  hand  of  a  friend. 

XXVII. 

"  Have  I  hurt  you  indeed  ?  We  are  quits  then. 

Nay,  friend  of  my  Walter,  be  mine  ! 

Come,  Dora,  my  darling,  my  angel,  and  help  me 

to  ask  him  to  dine." 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


THE  WELL  OF  ST.    KEYNE. 

["In  the  Parish  of  St.  Neots,  Cornwall,  is  a  well,  arched  over 
with  the  robes  of  four  kinds  of  trees,  —  withy,  oak,  elm,  and  ash,  — 
and  dedicated  to  St.  Keyne.  The  reported  virtue  of  the  water  is 
this,  that,  whether  husband  or  wife  first  drink  thereof,  they  get  the 
mastery  thereby."  —  FULLER.] 

A  well  there  is  in  the  West  country, 
And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen  ; 

There  is  not  a  wife  in  the  West  country 
But  has  heard  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne. 


.O 


■F-" 


HOME. 


133 


^ 


An  oak  and  an  elm  tree  stand  beside, 
And  behind  does  an  ash-tree  grow, 

And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 
Droops  to  the  water  below. 

A  traveller  came  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne  ; 

Pleasant  it  was  to  his  eye, 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  travelling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he, 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank, 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  nighboring  town 

At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail, 
On  the  well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  bade  the  stranger  hail. 

"  Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  stranger  ? "  quoth  he, 

"  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

"  Or  has  your  good  woman,  if  one  you  have, 

In  Cornwall  ever  been  ? 
For  an  if  she  have,  I  '11  venture  my  life 

She  has  drank  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne." 


"  I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  stranger  he  made  reply  ; 
' '  But  that  my  draught  should  be  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why." 

"  St.  Keyne,  "quoth  the  countryman, "  many  a  time 

Drank  of  this  crystal  well, 
And  before  the  angel  summoned  her 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 

"  If  the  husband  of  this  gifted  well 

Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 
A  happy  man  thenceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 

"  But  if  the  wife  should  drink  of  it  first, 

Heaven  help  the  husband  then  ! " 
The  stranger  stooped  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  waters  again. 

"  You  drank  of  the  well,  I  warrant,  betimes  ? " 

He  to  the  countryman  said. 
But  the  countryman  smiled  as  the  stranger  spake, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

' '  I  hastened,  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch. 
But  i'  faith,  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 

Robert  Southey. 


HOME 


HOME,    SWEET  HOME. 

FROM    THE   OPERA   OF   "  CLARI,    THE   MAID   OF   MILAN." 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Uc  it  ever  so  humble  there  's  no  place  like  home  ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  aeems  to  hallow  us  here, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with 
elsewhere. 

Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home  ! 

There  's  no  place  like  home  ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain  ! 
0,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again  ! 
The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my  call ;  — 
Give  me  them  !  and  the  peace  of  mind  dearer 
than  all  ! 
Home  !  home,  &c. 

John  Howard  Payne. 


GILLE  MACHREE. 

ENGLISH,  —  "BRIGHTENER    OF    MY    HEART." 

Gillc  machrcc, 
Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever; 


This  hearth  's  our  own, 
Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever  ! 

When  I  was  poor, 

Your  father's  door 
Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover, 

With  care  and  pain, 

I  tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover. 
I  said,  "  To  other  lands  I  '11  roam, 

Where  Fate  may  smile  on  me,  love"  ; 
I  said,  "  Farewell,  my  own  old  home  !  " 
And  I  said,  "  Farewell  to  thee,  love  !  " 

Sing  Gillc  machrcc,  &c. 

I  might  have  said, 

My  mountain  maid, 
Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover  ; 

I  know  a  spot, 

A  silent  cot, 
Your  friends  can  ne'er  discover, 
Where  gently  flows  the  waveless  tide 
By  one  small  garden  only ; 


t±— 


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134 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■a 


Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings  so  wide, 
And  the  linnet  sings  so  lonely  ! 
Sing  Gillc  machree,  &c. 

I  might  have  said, 

My  mountain  maid, 
A  father's  right  was  never  given 

True  hearts  to  curse 

With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blest  in  heaven. 
But  then,  I  said,  "  In  after  years, 

"When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her  ! 
My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends  thus  left  behind  her." 

Sing  Gillc  machree,  &c. 

0  no,  I  said, 

My  own  dear  maid, 
For  me,  though  all  forlorn,  forever, 

That  heart  of  thine 

Shall  ne'er  repine 
O'er  slighted  duty,  — never. 
From  home  and  thee  though  wandering  far, 

A  dreary  fate  be  mine,  love  ; 
I  'd  rather  live  in  endless  war, 

Than  buy  my  peace  with  thine,  love. 

Sing  Gillc  machree,  &c. 

Far,  far  away, 

By  night  and  day, 
I  toiled  to  win  a  golden  treasure  ; 

And  golden  gains 

Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 
I  sought  again  my  native  land, 

Thy  father  welcomed  me,  love  ; 
I  poured  my  gold  into  his  hand, 

And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love  ; 

Sing  Gille  machree 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined,  and  ne'er  shall  sever  ; 

This  hearth  's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever. 

Gerald  Griffin. 


A    WISH. 

MlNE  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill  ; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear  ; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 


Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew  ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


THE   QUIET   LIFE. 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire  ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter,  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 
Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 
Together  mixed  ;  sweet  recreation, 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown  ; 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die  ; 

Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 

Tell  where  I  lie. 

Alexander  Pope. 


SONG     FOR     THE      "HEARTH 
HOME." 


AND 


Dark  is  the  night,  and  fitful  and  drearily 

Rushes  the  wind  like  the  waves  of  the  sea  : 
Little  care  I,  as  here  I  sit  cheerily, 

Wife  at  my  side  and  my  baby  on  knee. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king  : 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  king  ! 

Flashes  the  firelight  upon  the  dear  faces, 
Dearer  and  dearer  and  onward  we  go, 
Forces  the  shadow  behind  us,  and  places 

Brightn  ess  around  us  with  warm  thin  the  glow. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king  : 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  king  ! 


-br 


4=1- 


HOME. 


■a 


.35 


Flashes  the  lovelight,  increasing  the  glory, 
Beaming  from  bright  eyes  with  warmth  of  the 
soul, 
Telling  of  trust  and  content  the  sweet  story, 
Lifting  the  shadows  that  over  us  roll. 
King,  king,  crown  me  the  king  : 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  king  ! 

Richer  than  miser  with  perishing  treasure, 

Served  with  a  service  no  conquest  could  bring  ; 
Happy  with  fortune  that  words  cannot  measure, 
Light-hearted  I  on  the  hearthstone  can  sing. 
'  King,  king,  crown  me  the  king  : 
Home  is  the  kingdom,  and  Love  is  the  king. 

REV.   WILLIAM   RANKIN  DURYEA. 


A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE. 

FROM    "THIRD    PART   OF   HENRY   VI." 

King   Henry.   0  God!  methinks,  it  were  a 
happy  life, 
To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain  ; 
To  sit  upon  a  hill,  as  I  do  now, 
To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point, 
Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  they  run  ; 
How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete  ; 
How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day  ; 
How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year  ; 
How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 
When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times,  — 
So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  ilock  ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate  ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself; 
So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young ; 
So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean  ; 
So  many  years  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece  : 
So  minutes,  hours,  days,  weeks,  months,  and  years, 
Passed  over  to  the  end  they  were  created, 
Would  bring  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave. 
Ah,  what  a  life  were  this  !  how  sweet !  how  lovely  ! 
Gives  not  the  hawthorn  hush  a  sweeter  shade 
To  shepherds,  looking  on  their  silly  sheep, 
Thau  doth  a  rich  embroidered  canopy 

To  kings  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery  ? 

Shakespeare. 


THE  MEANS   TO   ATTAIN   HAPPY   LIFE. 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  life  be  these,  I  find,  — 

The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain  ; 
The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind, 

The  equal  friend  ;  no  grudge,  no  strife  ; 
No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance  ; 


Without  disease,  the  healthful  life  ; 
The  household  of  continuance  ; 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare  ; 

True  wisdom  joined  with  simpleness  ; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care, 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress  ; 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate  ; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night  ; 

Contented  with  thine  own  estate, 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 

Lord  Surrey. 


THE   FIRESIDE. 

Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd, 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud, 

In  folly's  maze  advance  ; 
Though  singularity  and  pride 
Be  called  our  choice,  we  '11  step  aside, 

Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

From  the  gay  world  we  '11  oft  retire 
To  our  own  family  and  fire, 

Where  love  our  hours  employs  ; 
No  noisy  neighbor  enters  here, 
No  intermeddling  stranger  near, 

To  spoil  our  heartfelt  joys. 

If  solid  happiness  we  prize, 
Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies, 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam  ; 
The  world  hath  nothing  to  bestow,  — 
From  our  own  selves  our  bliss  must  flow, 

And  that  dear  hut,  our  home. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed  ; 
But  then  how  little  do  we  need, 

For  nature's  calls  are  few  ; 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies, 
To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

We  '11  therefore  relish  with  content 
Whate'er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  power  ; 
For,  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 
'T  is  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all, 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 

To  be  resigned  when  ills  betide, 
Patient  when  favors  are  denied, 

And  pleased  with  favors  given, — 
Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom's  part, 
This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

NATHANIEL  COTTON. 


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136 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■a 


A    WINTER'S   EVENING   HYMN    TO    MY 
FIRE. 

0  thou"  of  home  the  guardian  Lar, 

And  when  our  earth  hath  wandered  far 

Into  the  cold,  and  deep  snow  covers 

The  walks  of  our  New  England  lovers, 

Their  sweet  secluded  evening-star  ! 

T  was  with  thy  rays  the  English  Muse 

Ripened  her  mild  domestic  hues  : 

T  was  by  thy  flicker  that  she  conned 

The  fireside  wisdom  that  enrings 

With  light  from  heaven  familiar  things  ; 

By  thee  she  found  the  homely  faith 

In  whose  mild  eyes  thy  comfort  stay'th, 

AYhen  Death,  extinguishing  his  torch, 

Gropes  for  the  latch-string  in  the  porch  ; 

The  love  that  wanders  not  beyond 

His  earliest  nest,  but  sits  and  sings 

While  children  smooth  his  patient  wings  : 

Therefore  with  thee  I  love  to  read 

Our  brave  old  poets  :  at  thy  touch  how  stirs 

Lifi-  in  the  withered  words  !  how  swift  recede 

Time's  shadows  !  and  how  glows  again 

Through  its  dead  mass  the  incandescent  verse, 

As  when  upon  the  anvils  of  the  brain 

It  glittering  lay,  cyclopically  wrought 

By  the  fast  -  throbbing   hammers   of  the  poet's 

thought ! 
Thou  murmurest,  too,  divinely  stirred, 
The  aspirations  unattained, 
The  rhythms  so  rathe  and  delicate, 
They  bent  and  strained 
And  broke,  beneath  the  sombre  weight 
Of  any  airiest  mortal  word. 

As  who  would  say,  "'Tis  those,  I  ween, 
Whom  lifelong  armor-chafe  makes  lean 

That  win  the  laurel "  ; 
While  the  gray  snow-storm,  held  aloof, 
To  softest  outline  rounds  the  roof, 
Or  the  rude  North  with  baffled  strain 
Shoulders  the  frost-starred  window-pane  ! 
Now  the  kind  nymph  to  Bacchus  borne 
By  Morpheus'  daughter,  she  that  seems 
Gifted  upon  her  natal  morn 
By  him  with  fire,  by  her  with  dreams, 
Nicotia,  dearer  to  the  Muse 
Than  all  the  grapes'  bewildering  juice, 
We  worship,  unforbid  of  thee  ; 
And,  as  her  incense  floats  and  curls 
In  airy  spires  and  wayward  whirls, 
Or  poises  on  its  tremulous  stalk 
A  flower  of  frailest  revery, 
So  winds  and  loiters,  idly  free, 
The  current  of  unguided  talk, 
Now  laughter-rippled,  and  now  caught 
In  smooth  dark  pools  of  deeper  thought. 


Meanwhile  thou  mellowest  every  word, 

A  sweetly  unobtrusive  third  : 

For  thou  hast  magic  beyond  wine, 

To  unlock  natures  each  to  each  ; 

The  unspoken  thought  thou  canst  divine  ; 

Thou  fillest  the  pauses  of  the  speech 

With  whispers  that  to  dream-land  reach, 

And  frozen  fancy-springs  unchain 

In  Arctic  outskirts  of  the  brain  ; 

Sun  of  all  inmost  confidences  ! 

To  thy  rays  doth  the  heart  unclose 

Its  formal  calyx  of  pretences, 

That  close  against  rude  day's  offences, 

And  open  its  shy  midnight  rose. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


HOMESICK  FOR  THE  COUNTRY. 

I  'd  kind  o'  like  to  have  a  cot 
Fixed  on  some  sunny  slope  ;  a  spot 

Five  acres  more  or  less, 
With  maples,  cedars,  cherry-trees, 
And  poplars  whitening  in  the  breeze. 

'T  would  suit  my  taste,  I  guess, 

To  have  the  porch  with  vines  o'erhung, 

With  bells  of  pendant  woodbine  swung, 

In  eveiy  bell  a  bee  ; 
And  round  my  latticed  window  spread 
A  clump  of  roses,  white  and  red. 

To  solace  mine  and  me, 
I  kind  o'  think  I  should  desire 
To  hear  around  the  lawn  a  choir 
Of  wood-birds  singing  sweet ; 
And  in  a  dell  I  'd  have  a  brook, 
Where  I  might  sit  and  read  my  book. 

Such  should  be  my  retreat, 

Far  from  the  city's  crowd  and  noise  : 

There  would  I  rear  the  girls  and  boys, 

(I  have  some  two  or  three. ) 
And  if  kind  Heaven  should  bless  my  store 
With  five  or  six  or  seven  more, 

How  happy  I  would  be  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


I  KNEW  BY  THE  SMOKE  THAT  SO 
GRACEFULLY  CURLED. 

I  knew  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curled 
Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near, 

And  I  said,  "  If  there  's  peace  to  be  found  in  the 
world, 
A  heart  thatis  humble  might  hope  for  it  here  !" 


qa- 


-w 


HOME. 


a 


13' 


It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languished  around 
In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee  ; 

Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a  sound 
But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech- 
tree. 

And  "Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  exclaimed, 
' '  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to 
eye, 
"Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and  weep  if 
I  blamed, 
How  blest  could  I  live,  and  how  calm  could  I 
die! 

"  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry 

dips 

In  the  gush  of  the   fountain,  how  sweet  to 

recline, 

And  to  know  that  I  sighed  upon  innocent  lips, 

Which  had  never  been  sighed  on  by  any  but 

mine  ! " 

Thomas  Moore. 


HOME. 


FROM    "THE   TRAVELLER." 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shudd'riug  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own  ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease  : 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 

To  different  nations  makes  their  blessing  oven. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE   HOMES   OF   ENGLAND. 

The  stately  Homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand  ! 

Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees, 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land  ; 

The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 

Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam, 

And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 

What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light. 

There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  song, 

Or  childish  tale  is  told  ; 

Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England  ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 

Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath  hours  ! 

Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell's  chime 

Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn  ; 

All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

The  cottage  Homes  of  England  ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 

They  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 

Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves  ; 

And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long  in  hut  and  hall, 

May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  reared 

To  guard  each  hallowed  wall  ! 

And  green  forever  be  the  groves, 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 

Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  country  and  its  God. 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


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# 


1S8 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


FILIAL    AND    FRATERNAL    LOVE, 


FILIAL   LOVE. 

FROM    "CHILDE    HAROLD." 

There  is  a  dungeon  in  who.se  dim  drear  light 
What  do  I  gaze  on  ?  Nothing  :  look  again  ! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadowed  on  my  sight,  — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  hrain  : 
It  is  not  so  ;  I  see  them  full  and  plain,  — 
An  old  man  and  a  female  young  and  fair, 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar  :  but  what  doth  she  there, 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and 
bare  ? 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  on  the  heart  and  from  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife, 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look, 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves  — 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet  ?  I  know  not —  Cain 
was  Eve's. 


But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 

The  milk  of  his  own  gift :  it  is  her  sire 

To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 

Bom  with  her  birth.     No!  he  shall  not  expire 

"While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 

Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 

Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises 

higher 
Than  Egypt's  river  ;  —  from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man  !  Heaven's  realm 

holds  no  such  tide. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  milky-way 

Has  not  thy  story's  purity  ;  it  is 

A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray, 

And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 

Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 

Where  sparkle   distant   worlds  :  —  0,  holiest 

nurse  ! 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

BYRON. 


TO   AUGUSTA. 

HIS   SISTER,    AUGUSTA    LEIGH. 

My  sister  !  my  sweet  sister  !  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine, 


Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine  : 

Go  where  1  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same,  — 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 

There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny,  — 

A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 

The  first  were  nothing,  —  had  I  still  the  last, 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness  ; 

But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast, 
And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 

A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and  past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress  ; 

Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire's  fate  of  yore,  — 

He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 

Of  perils,  overlooked  or  unforeseen, 

I  have  sustained  my  share  of  worldly  shocks, 

The  fault  was  mine  ;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox  ; 

I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow, 

The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward, 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the  day 

That  gave  me  being  gave  me  that  which  marred 
The  gift,  —  a  fate,  or  will,  that  walked  astray : 

And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard, 
And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay  : 

But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  survive, 

If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  I  am  not  old  ; 

And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty  spray 

Of  mj'  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have  rolled 

Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away  : 

Something — I    know   not   what  —  does   still 
uphold 

A  spirit  of  slight  patience  ;  —  not  in  vain, 

Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 

Within  me,  —  or  perhaps  of  cold  despair, 

Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  recur,  — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 

(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer, 
And  with  light  armor  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 

Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was  not 

The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 


CZU- 


fl- 


FILIAL   AND   FKATERNAL   LOVE. 


139 


•ft 


I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 

In  happy  childhood  ;  trees,  and  flowers,  and 
brooks, 
"Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt, 

Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 
Come  as  of  yore  u}>on  me,  and  can  melt 

My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks  ; 
And  even  at  moments  I  could  think  I  see 
Some  living  thing  to  love,  —  but  none  like  thee. 

Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contemplation  ;  —  to  admire 

Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date  ; 

But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inspire. 

Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate, 

For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire, 

And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 

Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

0  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  !  —  but  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 

The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret ; 

There  may  be  others  which  I  less  may  show  ; 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 

1  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 

And  the  tide  rising  in  my  altered  eye. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake, 

By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 

Leman's  is  fair  ?  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore  ; 

Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make, 
Ere  tlud  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before  ; 

Though,  likeallthingswhichlhave  loved,  they  are 

Resigned  forever,  or  divided  far. 

The  world  is  all  before  me  ;  I  but  ask 

Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply,  — 

It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask, 
To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky, 

To  sec  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 

She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 

My  sister,  — till  I  look  again  on  thee. 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one  ; 

And  that  I  would  not ;  for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun. 

The  earliest,  —  even  the  only  paths  for  me,  — 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  slum, 

I  hail  been  better  than  I  now  can  be  j 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would  have  slept: 
/  had  not  suffered,  and  thou  hadst  not  wept. 

With  false  Ambition  whal  had  1  to  do? 

Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame  ! 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew, 

And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make, — a  name. 


Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue  ; 

Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over  ;   I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care  ; 

I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day  : 

Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were  ; 

My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils  ;  for  I  had  the  share 

Of  life  which  might  have  filled  a  century, 

Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  passed  me  by. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come, 
I  am  content ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 

Not  thankless,  —  for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal, 

And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  farther.  —  Nor  shall  I  conceal 

That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around, 

And  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine  : 

We  were  and  are  — ■  1  am,  even  as  thou  art  — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign  ; 

It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart, 

From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  decline 

We  are  intwined,  —  let  death  come  slow  or  fast, 

The  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last ! 

Byron. 


BERTHA   IN   THE   LANE. 

Put  the  broidery-frame  away, 

For  my  sewing  is  all  done  ! 
The  last  thread  is  used  to-day, 

And  I  need  not  join  it  on. 

Though  the  clock  stands  at  the  noon, 

I  am  weary  !     I  have  sewn, 

Sweet,  for  thee,  a  wedding-gown. 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  bed, 

And  stand  near  me,  dearest-sweet  ! 
Do  not  shrink  nor  be  afraid, 

Blushing  with  a  sudden  heat  ! 

No  one  standeth  in  the  street !  — 

By  God's  love  I  go  to  meet, 

Love  I  thee  with  love  complete. 

Lean  thy  face  down  !  drop  it  in 
These  two  hands,  that  I  may  hold 

'Twixt  their  palms  thy  cheek  and  chin, 
Stroking  back  the  curls  of  gold. 

'T  is  a  fair,  fair  face,  in  sooth,  — 
Larger  eyes  ami  redder  mouth 
Than  mine  were  in  my  first  youth  ! 


~4 


140 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■ft 


Tliou  art  younger  by  seven  years  — 
Ah  !  so  bashful  at  ray  gaze 

That  the  lashes,  hung  with  tears, 
Grow  too  heavy  to  upraise  ? 
I  would  wound  thee  by  no  touch 
"Which  thy  shyness  feels  as  such,  — 
Dost  thou  mind  me,  dear,  so  much  ? 

Have  I  not  been  nigh  a  mother 
To  thy  sweetness,  —  tell  me,  dear  ? 

Have  we  not  loved  one  another 
Tenderly,  from  year  to  year  ? 
Since  our  dying  mother  mild 
Said,  with  accents  undefiled, 
"Child,  be  mother  to  this  child  !  " 

Mother,  mother,  up  in  heaven, 
Stand  up  on  the  jasper  sea, 

And  be  witness  I  have  given 
All  the  gifts  required  of  me  ;  ■ — 
Hope  that  blessed  me,  bliss  that  crowned, 
Love  that  left  me  with  a  wound, 
Life  itself,  that  turned  around  ! 

Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind, 
Thou  art  standing  in  the  room, 

In  a  molten  glory  shrined, 
That  rays  off  into  the  gloom  ! 
But  thy  smile  is  bright  and  bleak, 
Like  cold  waves,  —  I  cannot  speak  ; 
I  sob  in  it,  and  grow  weak. 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 
One  hour  longer  from  my  soul, 

For  I  still  am  thinking  of 

Earth's  warm-beating  joy  and  dole  ! 
On  my  finger  is  a  ring 
"Which  I  still  see.  glittering, 
"When  the  night  hides  everything. 

Little  sister,  thou  art  pale  ! 

Ah,  I  have  a  wandering  brain  ; 
But  I  lose  that  fever-bale, 

And  my  thoughts  grow  calm  again. 

Lean  down  closer,  closer  still  ! 

I  have  words  thine  ear  to  fill, 

And  would  kiss  thee  at  my  will. 

Dear,  I  heard  thee  in  the  spring, 
Thee  and  Robert,  through  the  trees, 

"When  we  all  went  gathering 

Boughs  of  May-bloom  for  the  bees. 
Do  not  start  so  !  think  instead 
How  the  sunshine  overhead 
Seemed  to  trickle  through  the  shade. 

"What  a  day  it  was,  that  day  ! 
Hills  and  vales  did  openly 
Seem  to  heave  and  throb  away, 


At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky  ; 
And  the  silence,  as  it  stood 
In  the  glory's  golden  flood, 
Audibly  did  bud,  —  and  bud  ! 

Through  the  winding  hedge-rows  green, 
How  we  wandered,  I  and  you,  — 

"With  the  bowery  tops  shut  in, 

And  the  gates  that  showed  the  view  ; 
How  we  talked  there  !  thrushes  soft 
Sang  our  pauses  out,  or  oft 
Bleatings  took  them  from  the  croft. 

Till  the  pleasure,  grown  too  strong, 
Left  me  muter  evermore  ; 

And,  the  winding  road  being  long, 
I  walked  out  of  sight,  before  ; 
And  so,  wrapt  in  musings  fond, 
Issued  (past  the  wayside  pond) 
On  the  meadow-lands  beyond. 

I  sat  down  beneath  the  beech 
Which  leans  over  to  the  lane, 

And  the  far  sound  of  your  speech 
Did  not  promise  any  pain  ; 
And  I  blessed  you,  full  and  free, 
With  a  smile  stooped  tenderly 
O'er  the  May-flowers  on  my  knee. 

But  the  sound  grew  into  word 

As  the  speakers  drew  more  near  — 

Sweet,  forgive  me  that  I  heard 
What  you  wished  me  not  to  hear. 
Do  not  weep  so,  do  not  shake  — 
0,  I  heard  thee,  Bertha,  make 
Good  true  answers  for  my  sake. 

Yes,  and  he  too  !  let  him  stand 

In  thy  thoughts,  untouched  by  blame. 

Could  he  help  it,  if  my  hand 

He  had  claimed  with  hasty  claim  ! 
That  was  wrong  perhaps,  but  then 
Such  tilings  be  —  and  will,  again  ! 
"Women  cannot  judge  for  men. 

Had  he  seen  thee,  when  he  swore 
He  would  love  but  me  alone  ? 

Thou  wert  absent,  —  sent  before 
To  our  kin  in  Sidmouth  town. 
"When  he  saw  thee,  who  art  best 
Past  compare,  and  loveliest, 
He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

Could  we  blame  him  with  grave  words, 
Thou  and  I,  dear,  if  we  might  ? 

Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds 
Flying  straightway  to  the  light ; 
Mine  are  older.  —  Hush  !  —  look  out  — 
Up  the  street  !     Is  none  without  ? 
How  the  poplar  swings  about  ! 


■H- 


FILIAL   AND   FRATERNAL   LOVE. 


141 


ft 


And  that  hour  —  beneath  the  beach  — 
When  I  listened  in  a  dream, 

And  he  said,  in  his  deep  speech, 
That  he  owed  me  all  esteem  — 
Each  word  swam  in  on  my  brain 
With  a  dim,  dilating  pain, 
Till  it  burst  with  that  last  strain. 

I  fell  flooded  with  a  dark, 
In  the  silence  of  a  swoon  ; 

When  I  rose,  still,  cold,  and  stark, 
There  was  night,  —  1  saw  the  moon  ; 
And  the  stars,  each  in  its  place, 
And  the  May-blooms  on  the  grass, 
Seemed  to  wonder  what  I  was. 

And  I  walked  as  if  apart 

From  myself  when  I  could  stand, 

And  I  pitied  my  own  heart, 
As  if  I  held  it  in  my  hand 
Somewhat  coldly,  with  a  sense 
Of  fulfilled  benevolence, 
And  a  *"'  Poor  thing  "  negligence. 

And  I  answered  coldly  too, 

When  you  met  me  at  the  door  ; 

And  I  only  heard  the  dew 

Dripping  from  me  to  the  floor  ; 
And  the  flowers  I  bade  you  see 
Were  too  withered  for  the  bee,  — 
As  my  life,  henceforth,  for  me. 

Do  not  weep  so  —  dear  —  heart-warm  ! 
It  was  best  as  it  befell ! 

If  I  say  he  did  me  harm, 

I  speak  wild,  —  I  am  not  well. 
All  his  words  were  kind  and  good,  — 
He  esteemed  me  !     Only  blood 
Runs  so  faint  in  womanhood. 

Then  I  always  was  too  grave, 
Liked  the  saddest  ballads  sung, 

With  that  look,  besides,  we  have 
In  our  faces  who  die  young. 
I  had  died,  dear,  all  the  same,  — 
Life's  long,  joyous,  jostling  game 
Is  too  loud  for  my  meek  shame. 

We  are  so  unlike  each  other, 
Thou  and  I,  that  none  could  guess 

We  were  children  of  one  mother, 
But  for  mutual  tenderness. 
Thou  art  rose-lined  from  the  cold, 
And  meant,  verily,  to  hold 
Life's  pure  pleasures  manifold. 

I  am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

( 'lose  beside  a  rose-tree's  root ! 

Whosoe'er  would  reach  the  rose, 
Treads  the  crocus  underfoot ; 


I  like  May-bloom  on  thorn- tree, 
Thou  like  merry  summer-bee  ! 
Fit,  that  I  be  plucked  for  thee. 

Yet  who  plucks  me  ?  —  no  one  mourns  ; 
I  have  lived  my  season  out, 

And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns, 
Which  I  could  not  live  without. 
Sweet,  be  merry  !     How  the  light 
Comes  and  goes  !     If  it  be  night, 
Keep  the  candles  in  my  sight. 

Are  there  footsteps  at  the  door  ? 
Look  out  quickly.     Yea,  or  nay  ? 

Some  one  might  be  waiting  for 
Some  last  word  that  I  might  say. 
Nay  ?     So  best  !  —  So  angels  would 
Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road, 
Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

Colder  grow  my  hands  and  feet,  — 
When  I  wear  the  shroud  I  made, 

Let  the  folds  lie  straight  and  neat, 
And  the  rosemary  be  spread, 
That  if  any  friend  should  come, 
(To  see  thee,  sweet  !)  all  the  room 
May  be  lifted  out  of  gloom. 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 
On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 

Which  at  nights,  when  others  sleep, 
I  can  still  see  glittering. 
Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight, 
In  the  grave,  —  where  it  will  light 
All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night. 

On  that  grave  drop  not  a  tear  ! 

Else,  though  fathom-deep  the  place, 
Through  the  woollen  shroud  I  wear 

I  shall  feel  it  on  my  face. 

Rather  smile  there,  blessed  one, 

Thinking  of  me  in  the  sun,  — 

Or  forget  me,  smiling  on  ! 

Art  thou  near  me  ?  nearer  ?  so  ! 
Kiss  me  close  upon  the  eyes, 

That  the  earthly  light  may  go 
Sweetly  as  it  used  to  rise, 
When  I  watched  the  morning  gray 
Strike,  betwixt  the  hills,  the,  way 
He  was  sure  to  come  that  day. 

So  —  no  more  vain  words  be  said  ! 
The  hosannas  nearer  roll  — 

Mother,  smile  now  on  thy  dead,  — 
I  am  death-strong  in  my  soul  ! 
Mystic  Dove  alit  on  cross, 
Guide  the  poor  bird  of  the  snows 
Through  the  snow-wind  above  loss  ! 


J 


14: 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


a 


Jesus,  victim,  comprehending 

Love's  divine  self-abnegation, 
Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending, 

And  absorb  the  poor  libation  ! 

Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher, 

Up  through  angels'  hands  of  lire  !  — 

I  aspire  while  I  expire  !  — 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


HOMESICK. 

Come  to  me,  0  my  Mother  !  come  to  me, 

Thine  own  son  slowly  dying  far  away  ! 

Through  the  moist  ways  of  the  wide  ocean,  blown 

By  great  invisible  winds,  come  stately  ships 

To  this  calm  bay  for  quiet  anchorage  ; 

They  come,  they  rest  awhile,  they  go  away, 

But,  0  my  Mother,  never  comest  thou  ! 

The  snow  is  round  thy  dwelling,  the  white  snow, 

That  cold  soft  revelation  pure  as  light, 

And  the  pine-spire  is  mystically  fringed, 

Laced  with  incrusted  silver.     Here  —  ah  me  !  — 

The  winter  is  decrepit,  underborn, 

A  leper  with  no  power  but  his  disease. 

Why  am  I  from  thee,  Mother,  far  from  thee  ? 

Far  from  the  frost  enchantment,  and  the  woods 

Jewelled  from  bough  to  bough  ?     0  home,  my 

home  ! 

0  river  in  the  valley  of  my  home, 

With  mazy-winding  motion  intricate, 

Twisting  thy  deathless  music  underneath 

The  polished  ice-work,  —  must  I  nevermore 

Behold  thee  with  familiar  eyes,  and  watch 

Thy  beauty  changing  with  the  changeful  day, 

Thy  beauty  constant  to  the  constant  change  ? 

David  Gray. 


THE   ABSENT   SOLDIER   SON. 

FROM    "  THE   ROMAN." 

Loss,  I  am  weeping.     As  Thou  wilt,  0  Lord, 
Do  with  him  as  Thou  wilt ;  but  0  my  God, 
Let  him  come  back  to  die  !     Let  not  the  fowls 
0'  the  air  defile  the  body  of  my  child, 
M  y  own  fair  child,  that  when  he  was  a  babe, 
I  lift  up  in  my  arms  and  gave  to  Thee  ! 
Let  not  his  garment,  Lord,  be  vilely  parted, 
Nor  the  fine  linen  which  these  hands  have  spun 
Fall  to  the  stranger's  lot  !     Shall  the  wild  bird, 
That  would  have  pilfered  of  the  ox,  this  year 
Disdain   the  pens  and  stalls  ?     Shall  her  blind 

young, 
That  on  the  fleck  and  moult  of  brutish  beasts 
Had  been  too  happy,  sleep  in  cloth  of  gold 
Whereof  each  thread  is  to  this  beating  heart 


As  a  peculiar  darling  ?     Lo,  the  flies 
Hum  o'er  him  !     Lo,  a  feather  from  the  crow 
Falls  in  his  parted  lips  !     Lo,  his  dead  eyes 
See  not  the  raven  !     Lo,  the  worm,  the  worm 
Creeps  from  his  festering  corse  !     My  God  !  my 
God! 

0  Lord,  Thou  doest  well.     I  am  content. 
If  Thou  have  need  of  him  he  shall  not  stay. 
But  as  one  calleth  to  a  servant,  saying 
"At  such  a  time  be  with  me,"  so,  0  Lord, 
Call  him  to  Thee  !     0,  bid  him  not  in  haste 
Straight  whence  he  standeth.    Let  him  lay  aside 
The  soiled  tools  of  labor.     Let  him  wash 
His  hands  of  blood.     Let  him  array  himself 
Meet  for  his  Lord,  pure  from  the  sweat  and  fume 
Of  corporal  travail  !     Lord,  if  he  must  die, 
Let  him  die  here.   0,  take  him  where  Thou  gavest ! 

And  even  as  once  I  held  him  in  my  womb 
Till  all  tilings  were  fulfilled,  and  he  came  forth, 
So,  0  Lord,  let  me  hold  him  in  my  grave 
Till  the  time  come,  and  Thou,  who  settest  when 
The  hinds  shall  calve,  ordain  a  better  birth  ; 
And  as  I  looked  and  saw  my  son,  and  wept 
For  joy,  I  look  again  and  see  my  son,. 
And  weep  again  for  joy  of  him  and  Thee  ! 

Sidney  Dobell. 


THE  FAREWELL 

OF  A   VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER  DAUGHTERS  SOLD 
INTO    SOUTHERN    BONDAGE. 

Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hill  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them  ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


S3 


PARTING. 


143 


■a 


Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
0,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them,- 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play,  — 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank,  — 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank,  — - 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
"Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone,  — 

Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 

And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 

0  that  they  had  earlier  died, 

Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 

Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 

And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the.  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

By  the  holy  love  He  beareth,  — 

By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth,  — 

0,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 

All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 

Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 

With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 

From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 

Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

John  Greenleaf  whittier. 


PARTING. 


AS   SHIPS   BECALMED. 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail,  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried. 

When  fell  the  night,  up  sprang  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied  ; 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  selfsame  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so —  but  why  the  talc  reveal 

Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew,  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  wen-  filled, 
Ami  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  ; 

All  '  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed 
Or  wist  what  first  with  dawn  appeared. 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain, 

Brave  harks  !  —  in  light,  in  darkness  too  ! 
Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides 

To  thai  and  your  own  selves  lie  true. 


But  0  blithe  breeze  !  and  0  great  seas  ! 

Though  ne'er  that  earliest  parting  past, 
On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 

Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought,  — 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare  ; 

0  bounding  breeze,  0  rushing  seas, 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


AE  FOND   KISS   BEFORE  WE   PART. 

Ak  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever  ! 
Ae  fareweel,  alas  !   forever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-Wrung  tears  1  '11  pledge  thee  ; 
Warring  si^lis  ami  groans  I  '11  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  thai  fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me  ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy  — 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy  : 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her, 
I.<i\ c  lnii  her,  ami  love  forever. 


■ff 


144 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure  ! 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  ! 
Ae  fareweel,  alas  !  forever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee  ; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  '11  wage  thee. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


0  MY  LUVE'S  LIKE  A  RED,  RED  ROSE. 

0  MY  Luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That 's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 

0  my  Luve  's  like  the  melodie 
That 's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I  : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry  : 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  Dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile  ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Robert  Burns. 


By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  woe, 
That  heart,  no  longer  free, 

Must  boar  the  love  it  cannot  show, 
And  silent,  ache  for  thee. 


BYRON. 


THE   KISS,    DEAR   MAID. 

The  kiss,  dear  maid  !  thy  lip  has  left 

Shall  never  part  from  mine, 
Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 

Untainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams, 

An  equal  love  may  see  : 
The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  streams 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

I  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest 

In  gazing  when  alone  ; 
Nor  one  memorial  for  a  breast 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I  write  —  to  tell  the  tale 

My  pen  were  doubly  weak  : 
0,  what  can  idle  words  avail, 

Unless  the  heart  could  speak  T 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

Z<I>?7  jj.ov  ads  aycnrw.* 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  0  give  me  back  my  heart  ! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
Zwrj  /xov  col's  dyairCi. 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Wooed  by  each  Mgean  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge  ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Zuiij  /uoO  ads  dyaww. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Zw??  fiou  ads  dyatrC). 

Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone. 

Think  of  me,  sweet !  when  alone. 

Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 

Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 

Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No  ! 

Zc6i7  /jlov  ads  dyawu>. 

Byron. 


THE     HEATH     THIS     NIGHT    MUST    BE 
MY   BED. 

SONG   OF    THE   YOUNG    HIGHLANDER    SUMMONED    FROM 

THE   SIDE   OF    HIS    BRIDE    BY    THE    "  FIERY 

CROSS"    OF  RODERICK    DHU. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 
The  bracken  curtain  for  my  head, 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread, 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary  ; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 
My  vesper  song,  thy  wail,  sweet  maid  ! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary  ! 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 

The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow, 

*  My  life,  I  love  thee. 


<&-«- 


# 


B- 


PARTING. 


145 


■a 


I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow, 
And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 

No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know  ; 

"When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  foe, 

His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 
His  foot  like  arrow  free,  Mary. 

A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught ! 

For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought, 

Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary. 

And  if  returned  from  conquered  foes, 

How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 

How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose, 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


TO  LUCASTA, 

ON   GOING   TO   THE   WARS. 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkinde, 

That  from  the  nunnerie 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  minde, 

To  wane  and  armes  I  flee. 

True,  a  new  mistresse  now  I  chase,  — 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  imbrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you,  too,  should  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  deare,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 

Richard  Lovelace. 


ADIEU,  ADIEU !  OUR  DREAM  OF  LOVE— 

Adieu,  adieu  !  our  dream  of  love 
Was  far  too  sweet  to  linger  long  ; 

Such  hopes  may  bloom  in  bowers  above, 
But  here  they  mock  the  fond  and  young. 

We  met  in  hope,  we  part  in  tears  ! 

Yet  0,  't  is  sadly  sweet  to  know 
That  life,  in  all  its  future  years, 

Can  reach  us  with  no  heavier  blow  ! 

The  hour  is  come,  the  spell  is  past ; 

Far,  far  from  thee,  my  only  love, 
Youth's  earliest  hope,  and  manhood's  last, 

My  darkened  spirit  turns  to  rove. 

Adieu,  adieu !  0,  dull  and  dread 
Sinks  on  the  ear  that  parting  knell ! 

Hope  and  the  dreams  of  love  lie  dead,  — 
To  them  and  thee,  farewell,  farewell  ! 

THOMAS  K.   HERVEY. 


BLACK-EYED  SUSAN. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  black  eyed  Susan  came  aboard  ; 
' '  0,  where  shall  I  my  true-love  find  ? 

Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew." 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 

Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard 
He  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 

The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands, 

And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest  :  — 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

"0  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain  ; 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear  ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds  ;  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind : 
They  '11  tell  thee  sailors,  when  away, 

In  every  port  a  mistress  find  : 
Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 
For  Thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

"If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 
Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn  ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms 

"William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word, 
The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread  ; 

No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  ; 

They  kissed,  she  sighed,  he  hung  his  head. 

Her  lessening  boal  unwilling  rows  to  land  ; 

"Adieu!"  she  cries;  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

JOHN  GAY. 


3- 


tJ 


146 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


flb 


PARTING   LOVERS. 


I  love  thee,  love  thee,  Giulio  ! 

Some  call  me  cold,  and  some  demure, 
Aud  if  thou  hast  ever  guessed  that  so 

I  love  thee  .  .  .  well ;  —  the  proof  was  poor, 

And  no  one  could  be  sure. 

II. 

Before  thy  song  (with  shifted  rhymes 

To  suit  my  name)  did  I  undo 
The  persian  ?     If  it  moved  sometimes, 

Thou  hast  not  seen  a  hand  push  through 

A  flower  or  two. 

in. 

My  mother  listening  to  my  sleep 

Heard  nothing  but  a  sigh  at  night,  — 

The  short  sigh  rippling  on  the  deep,  — 
When  hearts  run  out  of  breath  and  sight 
Of  men,  to  God's  clear  light. 

IV. 

When  others  named  thee,  .  .  .  thought  thy  brows 
Were  straight,  thy  smile  was  tender,  .  . .  "Here 

He  comes  between  the  vineyard-rows  ! "  — 
I  said  not  "  Ay,"  —  nor  waited,  Dear, 
To  feel  thee  step  too  near. 


I  left  such  things  to  bolder  girls, 

Olivia  or  Clotilda.     Nay, 
When  that  Clotilda  through  her  curls 

Held  both  thine  eyes  in  hers  one  day, 

I  marvelled,  let  me  say. 

VI. 

I  could  not  try  the  woman's  trick  : 
Between  us  straightway  fell  the  blush 

Which  kept  me  separate,  blind,  and  sick. 
A  wind  came  with  thee  in  a  flush, 
As  blown  through  Horeb's  bush. 

VII. 

But  now  that  Italy  invokes 

Her  young  men  to  go  forth  and  chase 
The  foe  or  perish,  — nothing  chokes 

My  voice,  or  drives  me  from  the  place  : 

I  look  thee  in  the  face. 

VIII. 

I  love  thee  !  it  is  understood, 

Confest  :  I  do  not  shrink  or  start : 

No  blushes  :  all  my  body's  blood 
Has  gone  to  greaten  this  poor  heart, 
That,  loving,  we  may  part. 


IX. 

Our  Italy  invokes  the  youth 

To  die  if  need  be.     Still  there  's  room, 
Though  earth  is  strained  with  dead,  in  truth. 

Since  twice  the  lilies  were  in  bloom 

They  have  not  grudged  a  tomb. 

x. 

And  many  a  plighted  maid  and  wife 
And  mother,  who  can  say  since  then 

"My  country,"  cannot  say  through  life 

"My  son,"  "my  spouse,"  "my  flower  of  men, ' 
And  not  weep  dumb  again. 

XI. 

Heroic  males  the  country  bears, 

But  daughters  give  up  more  than  sons. 

Flags  wave,  drums  beat,  and  unawares 
You  flash  your  souls  out  with  the  guns, 
And  take  your  heaven  at  once  ! 

XII. 

But  we,  —  we  empty  heart  and  home 
Of  life's  life,  love  !  we  bear  to  think 

You  're  gone,  ...  to  feel  you  may  not  come,  .  . . 
To  hear  the  door-latch  stir  and  clink 
Yet  no  more  you,  .  .  .  nor  sink. 

XIII. 

Dear  God  !  when  Italy  is  one 

And  perfected  from  bound  to  bound,  .  .  . 
Suppose  (for  my  share)  earth  's  undone 

By  one  grave  in  't !  as  one  small  wound 

May  kill  a  man,  't  is  found  ! 

XIV. 

What  then  ?     If  love's  delight  must  end, 
At  least  we  '11  clear  its  truth  from  flaws. 

I  love  thee,  love  thee,  sweetest  friend  ! 
Now  take  my  sweetest  without  pause, 
To  help  the  nation's  cause. 

XV. 
And  thus  of  noble  Italy 

We  '11  both  be  worthy.     Let  her  show 
The  future  how  we  made  her  free, 
Not  sparing  life,  nor  Giulio, 
Nor  this  .  .  .  this  heart-break.     Go  ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


-♦ 


HERO   TO   LEANDER. 

0,  go  not  yet,  my  love, 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast ; 
The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven  above, 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
0,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again, 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last. 


[B- 


5 


fl- 


PARTING. 


147 


ft 


0  kiss  me  ere  we  part ; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart. 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the  bosom  of  the 
main. 
0  joy  !  0  bliss  of  blisses  ! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come,  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses, 

My  eyelids  and  my  1  now. 
Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses, 

And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy  limbs, 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir  ; 
Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 

I  have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleasant  myrrh ; 
Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  wander  hence  to-night, 

I  '11  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-night  the  roaring  brine 

Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses  ; 
The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  blue  and  calm  ; 
And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with  a  kiss  as 
soft  as  mine. 

No  Western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 
And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 

My  soul  must  follow  thee  ! 
0,  go  not  yet,  my  love, 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low  ; 
The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Those  marble  steps  below. 
The  turret-stairs  are  wet 

That  lead  into  the  sea. 

Leander  !  go  not  yet. 

The  pleasant  stars  have  set : 

0,  go  not,  go  not  yet, 

Or  I  will  follow  thee. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


But  give  the  cock  a  blow 
Who  did  begin  our  woe  ! " 


ANONYMOUS  (Chinese).     Translation 
of  WILLIAM  R.  ALGER. 


THE   PARTING   LOVERS. 

She  says,  ' '  The  cock  crows,  —  hark  ! 
He  says,  "  No  !  still 't  is  dark." 

She  says,  "The  dawn  grows  bright," 
He  says  "0  no,  my  Light." 

She  says,   "  Stand  up  and  say, 
Gets  not  the  heaven  gray  ? " 

He  says,  "  The  morning  star 
Climbs  the  horizon's  bar." 

She  says,  "  Then  quick  depart  : 
Alas!   you  now  must  start; 


THE  PARTING  OF  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

Juliet.  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  it  is  not  yet  near 
day: 
It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear  ; 
Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree  : 
Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

Romeo.     It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the 
morn, 
No  nightingale  :  look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east  : 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops. 
I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die. 

Juliet.     Yon  light  is  not  daylight,  I  know 
it,  I  : 
It  is  some  meteor,  that  the  sun  exhales, 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 
And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua  : 
Therefore  stay  yet,  — ■  thou  need'st  not  be  gone. 

Romeo.     Let  me  be  ta'en,  let  me  be  put  to 
death  ; 
I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 
I  '11  say,  yon  gray  is  not  the  morning's  eye, 
'T  is  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  brow  ; 
Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do  beat 
The  vanity  heaven  so  high  above  our  heads  : 
I  have  more  care  to  stay  than  will  to  go  ;  — 
Come,  death,  and  welcome  !   Juliet  wills  it  so.  — 
How  is 't,  my  soul  ?  let 's  talk,  it  is  not  day. 

Juliet.    It  is,  it  is,  hie  hence,  be  gone,  away  ! 
It  is  the  lark  that  sings  so  out  of  tune, 
Straining  harsh  discords,  and  un pleasing  sharps. 
Si niie  say,  the  lark  makes  sweet  division  ; 
This  doth  not  so,  for  she  divideth  us  : 
Some  say,   the  lark  and   loathdd   toad    change 

eyes  : 
0,  now  I  would  tiny  had  changed  voices  too ! 
Since  arm  from  arm  that  voice  doth  us  affray, 
Hunting  thee  hence,  with  hunts-up  to  the  day. 
0,  now  be  gone  ;  more  light  and  light  it  grows. 

Romeo.      More  light  and  light,  — more  dark 
and  dark  our  woes. 

Julikt.      Then,   window,   let  day  in,  and  let 
life  out. 

ROMEO.     Farewell,  farewell  !  one  kiss,  and  1  '11 
descend.  (Descends.) 

Juliet.     Art   thou   gone   so  ?  my  love  !  my 
lord  I  my  friend  ! 
I  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i'  the  hour, 
For  in  a  minute  there  are  many  days  ; 


3- 


-4? 


f 


lib 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Oh  !  by  this  count  I  shall  be  much  in  years, 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo. 

Romeo.    Farewell  !  I  will  omit  no  opportunity 
That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 
Juliet.    0,  think'st  thou  we  shall  ever  meet 

again  ? 
Rojieo.    I  doubt  it  not ;    and  all  these  woes 
shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

Shakespeare. 


AS   SLOW   OUR   SHIP. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  looked  back 

To  that  dear  isle  't  was  leaving. 
So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us  ; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we  've  left  behind  us  ! 

"When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanished  years 

We  talk  with  joyous  seeming,  — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming  ; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
0,  sweet 's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we  've  left  behind  us  ! 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  naught  but  love  is  wanting  ; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss 

If  Heaven  had  but  assigned  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we  've  left  behind  us  1 

As  travellers  oft  look  back  at  eve 
When  eastward  darkly  going, 

To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 
Still  faint  behind  them  glowing,  — 

So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 
To  gloom  hath  near  consigned  us, 

We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that 's  left  behind  us. 

Thomas  Moorb. 


ADIEU,    ADIEU  !   MY   NATIVE   SHORE. 

Adieu,  adieu  !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 


Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  Land  —  Good  Night ! 

A  few  short  hours,  and  he  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall  ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

Byron. 


LOCHABER  NO   MORE. 

Farewell  to  Lochaber  !  and  farewell,  my  Jean. 
Where  heartsome  with  thee  I  hae  mony  day  been  ! 
For  Lochaber  no  more,  Lochaber  no  more, 
We  '11  maybe  return  to  Lochaber  no  more  ! 
These  tears  that  I  shed  they  are  a'  for  my  dear, 
And  no  for  the  dangers  attending  on  war, 
Though  borne  on  rough  seas  to  a  far  bloody  shore, 
Maybe  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 

Though  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  every  wind, 
They  'llne'ermake  a  tempest  like  that  in  my  mind ; 
Though  loudest  of  thunder  on  louder  waves  roar, 
That 's  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on  the  shore. 
To  leave  thee  behind  me  my  heart  is  sair  pained  ; 
By  ease  that 's  inglorious  no  fame  can  be  gained  ; 
And  beauty  and  love 's  the  -reward  of  the  brave, 
And  I  must  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  my  Jeany,  maun  plead  my  excuse  ; 
Since  honor  commands  me,  how  can  I  refuse  ? 
Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  merit  for  thee, 
And  without  thy  favor  I  'd  better  not  be. 
I  gae  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honor  and  fame, 
And  if  I  should  luck  to  come  gloriously  hame, 
I  '11  bring  a  heart  to  thee  with  love  running  o'er, 
And  then  I  '11  leave  thee  and  Lochaber  no  more. 

Allan  Ramsay. 


MY   OLD   KENTUCKY   HOME. 


NEGRO   SONG. 


The  sun  shines  bright  in  our  old  Kentucky  home  ; 

'T  is  summer,  the  darkeys  are  gay  ; 
The  corn  top's  ripe  and  the  meadow's  in  the  bloom, 

While  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day  ; 
The  young  folks  roll  on  the  little  cabin  floor, 

All  merry,  all  happy,  all  bright ; 
By'mby  hard  times  comes  a  knockin'  at  the  door,  — 

Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night  ! 


& 


— Cl 


PARTING. 


—a 

U9      ., 


CHORUS. 

Weep  no  more,  my  lady  ;  0,  weep  no  more 

to-day  ! 
We  '11  sing  one  song  for  my  old  Kentucky 

home, 
For  our  old  Kentucky  home  far  away. 

They  hunt  no  more  for  the  possum  and  the  coon, 

On  the  meadow,  the  hill,  and  the  shore  ; 
They  sing  no  more  by  the  glimmer  of  the  moon, 

On  the  bench  by  the  old  cabin  door  ; 
The  day  goes  by,  like  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart, 

With  sorrow  where  all  was  delight  ; 
The  time  has  come,  when  the  darkeys  have  to  part, 

Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady,  &c. 

The  head  must  bow,  andtheback  will  have  to  bend, 

Wherever  the  darkey  may  go  ; 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  troubles  all  will  end, 

In  the  field  where  the  sugar-cane  grow  ; 
A  few  more  days  to  tote  the  weary  load, 

No  matter  it  will  never  be  light ; 
A  few  more  days  till  we  totter  on  the  road, 

Then,  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 
Weep  no  more,  my  lady,  &c. 

ANONYMOUS. 


FAREWELL!    IF    EVER    FONDEST 
PRAYER. 

Fakkwell  !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  other's  weal  availed  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
'T  were  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh  : 

Oh  !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word  —  Farewell  !  — ■  Farewell  ! 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry  : 

But  in  my  breast  and  in  my  brain 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that   ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  hot  deigns  nor  dares  complain. 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel  : 
1  only  know  we  loved  in  vain  — 

1  only  feel —  Farewell  !  —  Farewell  ! 

BYRON. 


FARE  THEE   WELLI   AM")    IF  FOREVER. 

Fare  thee  well  !  and  it  forever, 
Still  forever,  fare  thee  well ; 

Even  though  unforgiving,  never 
'< rainsl  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 


Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again  : 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show  ! 

Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 
'T  was  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 

Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee,  — 
Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 

Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 
Founded  on  another's  woe  : 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found; 
Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 

To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 

Yet,  0  yet,  thyself  deceive  not : 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away  ; 

Still  thine  own  its'  life  retaineth,  — - 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat ; 

And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is  —  that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 

Than  the  wail  above  the  dead  ; 
Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 

Wake  us  from  a  widowed  bed. 

And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather, 
When  our  child's  first  accents  flow, 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Father  !  " 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee, 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed  ! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  nevermore  niayst  see, 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 
All  my  madness  none  can  know  ; 

All   my  hopes,  where'er  thou  guest, 

Wither,  yet  witli  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken  ; 
Pride  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 

Bows  to  thee,        by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now  ; 

But  't  is  d ;  all  words  are  idle,  — 

Words  from  me  are  vainer  still  ; 
Bui   the  thoughts  we  cannot  biidi  • 

Force  I  heir  way  without  the  w  ill. 


~ff 


c& 


150 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


Fare  thee  well  !  —  thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 
Seared  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted, 

More  than  this  1  scarce  can  die. 

BYRON. 


WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED. 

When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 

Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  years, 

Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss  : 

Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this  ! 

The  dew  of  the  morning 
Sunk  chill  on  my  brow  ; 
It  felt  like  the  warning 
Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 
And  light  is  thy  fame  : 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken 
And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 
A  knell  to  mine  ear  ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me  — 
Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee 
Who  knew  thee  too  well  : 
Long,  long  shall  1  rue  thee 
Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met : 

In  silence  I  grieve 

That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 

If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 

How  should  I  greet  thee  ?  — 

With  silence  and  tears. 


When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 
Now  !   if  thou  would.st  —  when  all   have   given 
him  over  — 
From  death  to  life  thou  might' st  him  yet  re- 
cover. 

Michael  Drayton. 


FAREWELL  ,  THOU  ART  TOO  DEAR. 

I 

Farewell  !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate  : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing  ; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting  ? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gav'st,  thy  own  worth  then   not 

knowing, 
Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking  ; 
So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter ', 
In  sleep  a  king,  but,  waking,  no  such  matter. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


BYRON. 


COME,   LET  US   KISSE  AND   PARTE. 

Since  there 's  no  helpe,  —  come,  let  us  kisse  and 
parte, 

Nay,  I  have  done,  — you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  am  glad,  — yea,  glad  with  all  my  hearte, 

That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myselfe  can  free. 
Shake  hands  forever  !  —  cancel  all  our  vows  ; 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  againe, 
Re  it  not  seene  in  either  of  our  brows, 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retaine. 

Now  —  at  the  last  gaspe  of  Love's  latest  breath  — 
When,  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless  lies ; 


AN   EARNEST   SUIT 

TO    HIS    UNKIND   MISTRESS   NOT    TO    FORSAKE    HIM. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  !  for  shame  ! 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart, 
Never  for  to  depart, 
Neither  for  pain  nor  smart  ? 
And  wilt  thou  leave  :ne  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nav  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
And  have  no  more  pity 
Of  him  that  loveth  thee  ? 
Alas  !  thy  cruelty  ! 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  1 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat. 


tr 


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PAliTlNG. 


151 


a 


WE   PARTED   IX   SILENCE. 

We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night, 
On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river  ; 

Where  the  fragrant  limes  their  boughs  unite, 
We  met  —  and  we  parted  forever  ! 

The  night-bird  sung,  and  the  stars  above 
Told  many  a  touching  story, 

Of  friends  long  passed  to  the  kingdom  of  love, 

Where  the  soul  wears  its  mantle  of  glory. 

We  parted  in  silence,  —  our  cheeks  were  wet 

With  the  tears  that  were  past  controlling  ; 
We  vowed  we  would  never,  no,  never  forget, 

And  those  vows  at  the  time  were  consoling  ; 
But  those  lips  that  echoed  the  sounds  of  mine 

Are  as  cold  as  that  lonely  river  ; 
And  that  eye,  that  beautiful  spirit's  shrine, 

Has  shrouded  its  fires  forever. 

And  now  on  the  midnight  sky  I  look, 

And  my  heart  grows  full  of  weeping  ; 
Each  star  is  to  me  a  sealed  book, 

Some  tale  of  that  loved  one  keeping. 
We  parted  in  silence,  —  we  parted  in  tears, 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river  : 
But  the  odor  and  bloom  of  those  bygone  years 

Shall  hang  o'er  its  waters  forever. 

Mrs.  Crawford. 


PEACE!    WHAT   CAN  TEARS  AVAIL? 

Peace  !  what  can  tears  avail  ? 
She  lies  all  dumb  and  pale, 

And  from  her  eye 
The  spirit  of  lovely  life  is  fading,  — 

And  she  must  die  ! 
Why  looks  the  lover  wroth,  —  the  friend  upbraid- 
ing ? 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Hath  she  not  dwelt  too  long 
Midst  pain,  and  grief,  and  w-rong  ? 

Then  why  not  die  ? 
Why  suffer  again  her  doom  of  sorrow, 

And  hopeless  lie  ? 
Why  Qurse  the  trembling  dream  until  to-morrow  ? 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Death  !     Take  her  to  thine  arms, 
In  all  her  stainless  charms  ! 

And  with  her  fly 
To  heavenly  haunts,  where,  clad  in  brightness, 

The  angols  lie  ! 
Wilt  bear  her  there,  0  death  !  in  all  her  whiteness? 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


HANG   UP   HIS   HARP  ;  HE  'LL  WAKE 
NO   MORE ! 

His  young  bride  stood  beside  his  bed, 

Her  weeping  watch  to  keep  ; 
Hush  !  hush  !  he  stirred  not,  —  was  he  dead, 

Or  did  he  only  sleep  ? 

His  brow  was  calm,  no  change  was  there, 

No  sigh  had  filled  his  breath  ; 
0,  did  he  wear  that  smile  so  fair 

In  slumber  or  in  death  ? 

"  Reach  down  his  harp,"  she  wildly  cried, 

"  And  if  one  spark  remain, 
Let  him  but  hear  '  Loch  Erroch's  Side  "  ; 

He  '11  kindle  at  the  strain. 

' '  That  tune  e'er  held  his  soul  in  thrall ; 

It  never  breathed  in  vain  ; 
He  '11  waken  as  its  echoes  fall, 

Or  never  wake  again." 

The  strings  were  swept.     'T  was  sad  to  hear 

Sweet  music  floating  there  ; 
For  every  note  called  forth  a  tear 

Of  anguish  and  despair. 

"  See  !  see  !  "  she  cried,  "  the  tune  is  o'er 

No  opening  eye,  no  breath  ; 
Hang  up  his  harp  ;  he  '11  wake  no  more  ; 

He  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death." 

ELIZA  COOK. 


THE     DYING     GERTRUDE    TO    WALDE- 
GRAVE. 

FROM    "GERTRUDE   OF   WYOMING." 

Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate  !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress  ; 
And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat,  —  0, 

think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 
Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs,  when  I  am  laid  in 

dust ! 

Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  1  depart. 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 

Where  my  dear  father  look  thee  to  his  heart, 

And  Gertrude  thoughl  it  ecstasy  to  rove 

With  thee,  .'is  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 

<  >f  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

In  heaven  ;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 


— EP 


152 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


And  must  this  parting  "be  our  very  last  ? 
No  !  I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is 
past. 

Half  could    I   bear,    methinks,    to    leave   this 

earth,  — 
And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 
If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 
Of  one  dear  pledge  ;  —  but  shall  there  then  be 

none, 
In  future  time,  —  no  gentle  little  one, 
To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  ? 
Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 
A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love  !  to  die  beholding  thee  !  " 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  MOURNER. 

Yes  !  there  are  real  mourners,  — ■  I  have  seen 
A  fair  sad  girl,  mild,  suffering,  and  serene  ; 
Attention  (through  the  day)  her  duties  claimed, 
And  to  be  useful  as  resigned  she  aimed  ; 
Neatly  she  drest,  nor  vainly  seemed  t'  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect  ; 
But  when  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep, 
She  sought  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep  ; 
Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  displayed, 
That  faithful  memory  brings  to  sorrow's  aid  : 
For  then  she  thought  on  one  regretted  youth, 
Her  tender  trust,  and  his  unquestioned  truth  ; 
In  ever}7  place  she  wandered,  where  they  'd  been, 
And  sadly-sacred  held  the  parting  scene, 
"Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave  ;  that  place 
With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace  ! 

Happy  he  sailed,  and  great  the  care  she  took, 
That  he  should  softly  sleep  and  smartly  look  ; 
"White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck  ; 
And  every  comfort  men  at  sea  can  know, 
Was  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow  : 
For  he  to  Greenland  sailed,  and  much  she  told, 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate's  cold  ; 
Yet  saw  not  danger  ;  dangers  he  'd  withstood, 
Nor  could  she  trace  the  fever  in  his  blood. 

His  messmates  smiled  at  flushings  on  his  cheek, 
And  he  too  smiled,  but  seldom  would  he  speak  ; 
For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain, 
With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  explain. 
He  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a  sigh 
A  lover's  message,  ■ —  "Thomas,  I  must  die  ; 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast, 
And  gazing  go  !  —  if  not,  this  trifle  take, 
And  say,  till  death  I  wore  it  for  her  sake  : 
Yes  !  I  must  die  —  blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow 
on, 


Give  me  one  look  before  my  life  be  gone, 
Oh  !  give  me  that,  and  let  me  not  despair, 
One   last   fond    look  !  —  and    now   repeat   the 

prayer." 
He  had  his  wish,  had  more :  I  will  not  paint 
The  lovers'  meeting  ;  she  beheld  him  faint,  — 
With  tender  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view, 
Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew  ; 
He  tried  to  smile  ;  and,  half  succeeding,  said, 
"Yes  !  I  must  die  "  —  and  hope  forever  fled. 
Still   long   she   nursed    him ;    tender    thoughts 

meantime 
Were  interchanged,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 
To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away  ; 
With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  Bible  read, 
Soothed  the  faint   heart,  and  held  the   aching 

head  : 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer, 
Apart  she  sighed  ;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear  ; 
Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 
One  day  he  lighter  seemed,  and  they  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot  ; 
They  spoke   with   cheerfulness,  and  seemed  to 

think, 
Yet  said  not  so  —  "  Perhaps  he  will  not  sink." 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appeared, 
A  sudden  vigor  in  his  voice  was  heard  ;  — 
She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Prayer, 
And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chair  ; 
Lively  he  seemed,  and  spake  of  all  he  knew, 
The  friendly  many,  and  the  favorite  few  ; 
Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall, 
But  she  has  treasured,  and  she  loves  them  all  ; 
When  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people,  —  death  has  made  them  dear. 
He  named  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  prest, 
And  fondly  whispered,  "  Thou  must  go  to  rest." 
"  I  go,"  he  said  ;  but  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His   hand   more   cold,   and   fluttering   was   the 

sound  ; 
Then  gazed  affrighted  ;  but  she  caught  a  last, 
A  dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  past  ! 

She  placed  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above, 
Neatly  engraved,  —  an  offering  of  her  love  : 
For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her  bed, 
Awake  alike  to  duty  and  the  dead  ; 
She  would  have  grieved,  had  friends  presumed  to 

spare 
The  least  assistance,  —  't  was  her  proper  care. 
Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit, 
Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit : 
But  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round, 
And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found  ; 
Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hours  employ, 
While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woes  destroy. 

George  Crabbe. 


<&- 


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M  A  RINK     VIE  W  . 

'  Blown  out  and  in  by  summer  ^ales. 
The  stately  ships,  with  crowded  sails.' 


ABSENCE. 


153 


■a 


ABSENCE 


TO   HER  ABSENT  SAILOR. 

FROM    "  THE   TENT    ON    THE    BEACH." 

Her  window  opens  to  the  bay, 
On  glistening  light  or  misty  gray, 
And  there  at  dawn  and  set  of  day 

In  prayer  she  kneels  : 
"Dear  Lord  ! "  she  saith,  "to  many  a  home 
From  wind  and  wave  the  wanderers  come  ; 
I  only  see  the  tossing  foam 

Of  stranger  keels. 

"  Blown  out  and  in  by  summer  gales, 
The  stately  ships,  with  crowded  sails, 
And  sailors  leaning  o'er  their  rails, 

Before  me  glide  ; 
They  come,  they  go,  but  nevermore, 
Spice-laden  from  the  Indian  shore, 
I  see  his  swift-winged  Isidore 

The  waves  divide. 

"0  thou  !  with  whom  the  night  is  day 
And  one  the  near  and  far  away, 
Look  out  on  yon  gray  waste,  and  say 

Where  lingers  he. 
Alive,  perchance,  on  some  lone  beach 
Or  thirsty  isle  beyond  the  reach 
Of  man,  he  hears  the  mocking  speech 

Of  wind  and  sea. 

"0  dread  and  cruel  deep,  reveal 
The  secret  which  thy  waves  conceal, 
And,  ye  wild  .sea-birds,  hither  wheel 

And  tell  your  tale. 
Let  winds  that  tossed  his  raven  hair 
A  message  from  my  lost  one  bear,  — 
Some  thought  of  me,  a  last  fond  prayer 

Or  dying  wail  ! 

"Come,  with  your  dreariest  truth  shut  out 
Tlie  fears  that  haunt  me  round  about ; 
0  God  !   I  cannot  bear  this  doubt 

That  stifles  breath. 
The  worst  is  better  than  the  dread  ; 
Give  me  but  leave  to  mourn  my  dead 
Asleep  in  trust  and  hope,  instead 

Of  life  in  death!" 

It  might  have  been  the  evening  breeze 
That  whispered  in  the  garden  trees, 
It  might  have  been  the  sound  of  seas 
That  rose  and  fell ; 


But,  with  her  heart,  if  not  her  ear, 
The  old  loved  voice  she  seemed  to  hear  : 
"  I  wait  to  meet  thee  :  be  of  cheer 
For  all  is  well  !  " 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


TO   LUCASTA, 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 
Away  from  thee  ; 
Or  that,  when  I  am  gone, 
You  or  I  were  alone  ; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind  or  swallowing  wave. 

But  I  '11  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 
To  swell  my  sail, 
Or  pay  a  tear  to  'suage 
The  foaming  blue-god's  rage  ; 
For,  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,  I  'm  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 

Though  seas  and  lands  be  'twixt  us  both, 
Our  faith  and  troth, 
Like  separated  souls, 
All  time  and  space  controls  : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet, 
Unseen,  unknown  ;  and  greet  as  angels  greet. 

So,  then,  we  do  anticipate 
Our  after-fate, 
And  are  alive  i'  th'  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfmed 
In  heaven,  — their  earthly  bodies  left  behind. 
Colonel  Richard  Lovelace. 


OF    A'     THE     AIKTS     THE     WIND    CA3 
BLAW. 

Of  a*  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west ; 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best. 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  monie  a  hill's  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 
1  see  her  sweet  and  fair; 


■ff 


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154 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  ; 
There 's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green,  — 
There 's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  of  my  Jean. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


LOVE'S   MEMORY. 

FROM    "ALL  'S    WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL." 

I  AM  undone  :  there  is  no  living,  none, 

If  Bertram  be  away.     It  were  all  one, 

That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star, 

And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me  : 

In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 

Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 

The  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself : 

The  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion 

Must  die  for  love.     'T  was  pretty,  though  a  plague, 

To  see  him  ev'ry  hour  ;  to  sit  and  draw 

His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 

In  our  heart's  table,  —  heart  too  capable 

Of  every  line  -and  trick  of  his  sweet  favor  : 

But  now  he 's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 

Must  sanctify  his  relics. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


THE  SUN  UPON  THE  LAKE  IS  LOW. 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low, 

The  wild  birds  hush  their  song, 
The  hills  have  evening's  deepest  glow, 

Yet  Leonard  tarries  long. 
Now  all  whom  varied  toil  and  care 

From  home  and  love  divide, 
In  the  calm  sunset  may  repair 

Each  to  the  loved  one's  side. 

The  noble  dame  on  turret  high, 

Who  waits  her  gallant  knight, 
Looks  to  the  western  beam  to  spy 

The  flash  of  armor  bright. 
The  village  maid,  with  hand  on  brow 

The  level  ray  to  shade, 
Upon  the  footpath  watches  now 

For  Colin's  darkening  plaid. 

Now  to  their  mates  the  wild  swans  row, 

By  day  they  swam  apart, 
And  to  the  thicket  wanders  slow 

The  hind  beside  the  hart. 
The  woodlark  at  his  partner's  side 

Twitters  his  closing  song,  — 
All  meet  whom  day  and  care  divide, 

But  Leonard  tarries  long  ! 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


0,    SAW   YE   BONNIE   LESLEY? 

0,  SAW  ye  bonnie  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border  ? 

She 's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conrpiests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  forever  ; 
For  nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  ne'er  made  sic  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee  ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee  ; 

He  'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 
And  say  '  I  canna  wrang  thee  ! ' 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee  ; 

Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee  ; 
Thou  'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely 

That  ill  they  '11  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 

That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There  's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

Robert  Burns 


JEANIE   MORRISON. 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way  ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day ! 
The  fire  that 's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  lip 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part  ; 
Sweet  time  —  sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 


c& 


-H 


ABSENCE. 


155 


a 


'T  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear  ; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Kemembered  evermair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

"What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
"When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

0,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
"Whene'er  the  scule-weans,  laughin',  said 

"We  cleeked  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  settle  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
"When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes,  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about,  — 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

0'  scule-time,  and  o'  thee. 
0  mornin'  life  !  0  momin'  luve  ! 

0  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang  ! 

O,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  thro.ssil  whusslit  sweet  ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees,  — 
And  we,  with  nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies  ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness o' joy,  till  bath 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Tears  trickled  doun  your  cheek 

Like  d  (W-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 
Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 

That  was  a  time,  a  Messed  time. 
When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 

Winn  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 
Unsyllabled  —  unsung  ' 


I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi*  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
0,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
0,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne  ? 

I  've  wandered  east,  1  've  wandered  west. 

I  've  borne  a  weary  lot  ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Since  we  were  sindered  young 

1  've  never  seen  your  face  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  die, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

0'  bygone  days  and  me  ! 

William  Motherwell. 


LOVE. 

FROM    "THE   TRIUMPH   OF   TIME." 

There  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old 

By  the  tideless,  dolorous,  midland  sea. 
In  a  land  of  sand  and  ruin  and  gold 

There  shone  one  woman,  and  none  but  she. 
And  finding  life  for  her  love's  sake  fail, 
Being  fain  to  see  her,  he  bade  set  sail, 
Touched  land,  and  saw  her  as  life  grew  cold, 
And  [liaised  God,  seeing  ;  and  so  died  he. 

Died,  praising  God  for  his  gift  and  grace  : 

For  she  bowed  down  to  him  weeping,  and  said, 
"  Live"  ;  and  her  tears  were  shed  on  his  face 

Or  ever  the  life  in  his  face  was  shed. 
The  sharp  tears  fell  through  her  hair,  and  stung 
Once,  and  her  close  lips  touched  him  and  clung 
Once,  and  grew  one  with  his  lips  for  a  space  ; 
And  so  drew  back,  and  the  man  was  dead. 

O  brother,  the  gods  were  good  to  you. 

Sice]',  ami  he  glad  while  the  world  endures. 
Be  well  contenl  as  the  years  wear  through  ; 

Give  thanks  for  life,  and  the  loves  and  lures  ; 
Give  thanks  for  life,  <>  brother,  and  death, 
For  the  sweet  last  sound  of  her  feet,  her  breath, 
For  gifts  she  gave  yon,  gracious  and  few, 

Tears  and  kisses,  that  lady  of  yours. 


~ff 


ifi- 


156 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


—a 


Rest,  and  be  glad  of  the  gods  ;  but  I, 

How  shall  I  praise  them,  or  how  take  rest  ? 

There  is  not  room  under  all  the  sky 
For  me  that  know  not  of  worst  or  best, 

Dream  or  desire  of  the  days  before, 

Sweet  things  or  bitterness,  any  more. 

Love  will  not  come  to  me  now  though  I  die, 
As  love  came  close  to  you,  breast  to  breast. 

1  shall  never  be  friends  again  with  roses  ; 

I  shall  loathe  sweet  tunes,  where  a  note  grown 
strong 
Relents  and  recoils,  and  climbs  and  closes, 

As  a  wave  of  the  sea  turned  back  by  song. 
There  are  sounds  where  the  soiil'sdelighttakesfire, 
Face  to  face  with  its  own  desire  ; 
A  delight  that  rebels,  a  desire  that  reposes  ; 

I  shall  hate  sweet  music  my  whole  life  long. 

The  pulse  of  war  and  passion  of  wonder, 

The  heavens  that  murmur,  the  sounds  that 
shine, 

The  stars  that  sing  and  the  loves  that  thunder, 
The  music  burning  at  heart  like  wine, 

An  armed  archangel  whose  hands  raise  up 

All  senses  mixed  in  the  spirit's  cup, 

Till  flesh  and  spirit  are  molten  in  sunder,  — 
These  things  are  over,  and  no  more  mine. 

These  were  a  part  of  the  playing  I  heard 

Once,  ere  my  love  and  my  heart  were  at  strife  ; 
Love  that  sings  and  hath  wings  as  a  bird, 

Balm  of  the  wound  and  heft  of  the  knife. 
Fairer  than  earth  is  the  sea,  and  sleep 
Than  overwatching  of  eyes  that  weep, 
Now  time  has  done  with  his  one  sweet  word, 
The  wine  and  leaven  of  lovely  life. 

I  shall  go  my  ways,  tread  out  my  measure, 

Fill  the  days  of  my  daily  breath 
"With  fugitive  things  not  good  to  treasure, 

Do  as  the  world  doth,  say  as  it  saith  ; 
But  if  we  had  loved  each  other —  0  sweet, 
Had  yon  felt,  lying  under  the  palms  of  your  feet, 
Tin- heart  of  my  heart,  beating  harder  with  pleasure 

To  feel  you  tread  it  to  dust  and  death  — 

Ah,  had  1  not  taken  my  life  up  and  given 
All  that  life  gives  and  the  years  let  go, 

The  wine  and  money,  the  balm  and  leaven, 
The  dreams  reared  high  and  the  hopes  brought 
low, 

Come  life,  come  death,  not  a  word  be  said  ; 

Should  I  lose  you  living,  and  vex  you  dead  ? 

I  shall  never  tell  you  on  earth  ;  and  in  heaven, 

If  I  cry  to  you  then,  will  you  hear  or  know  ? 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


DAY,    IN   MELTING    PURPLE   DYING 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying  ; 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing  ; 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying  ; 
Zephvr,  with  my  ringlets  playing  ; 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress  ; 

I  am  sick  of  loneliness  ! 

Thou,  to  whom  I  love  to  hearken, 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken  ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou  'rt  true,  and  I  '11  believe  thee  ; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul's  intent, 
Let  me  think  it  innocent  ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure  ; 

All  I  ask  is  friendship's  pleasure  ; 

Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling,  — 

Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling  ; 

Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me, 
I  would  only  look  on  thee  ! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling, 

Ecstasy  but  in  revealing  ; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation, 

Rapture  in  participation  ; 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 
In  a  lone,  unfriended  breast. 

Absent  still !     Ah  !  come  and  bless  me  J 

Let  these  eyes  again  caress  thee. 

Once  in  caution,  I  could  fly  thee  ; 

Now,  I  nothing  could  deny  thee. 

In  a  look  if  death  there  be, 

Come,  and  I  will  gaze  on  thee ! 

Maria  Brooks 


BY  THE   ALMA   RIVER. 

Willie,  fold  your  little  hands  ; 

Let  it  drop,  —  that  "  soldier  "  toy  ; 
Look  where  father's  picture  stands,  — 

Father,  that  here  kissed  his  boy 
Not  a  month  since,  —  father  kind, 
Who  this  night  may  (never  mind 
Mother's  sob,  my  Willie  dear) 
Cry  out  loud  that  He  may  hear 
Who  is  God  of  battles,  —  cry, 
"  God  keep  father  safe  this  day 
By  the  Alma  River  !  " 

Ask  no  more,  child.  Never  heed 
Either  Russ,  or  Frank,  or  Turk  ; 

Right  of  nations,  trampled  creed, 

Chance-poised  victory's  bloody  work  ; 

Any  flag  i'  the  wind  may  roll 

On  thy  heights,  Sevastopol  ! 


m~ 


ff 


ABSENCE. 


157 


•a 


"Willie,  all  to  you  and  me 
Is  that  spot,  whate'er  it  be, 
"Where  he  stands  —  no  other  word  — 
Stands —  God  sure  the  child's  prayers  heard — 
Near  the  Alma  River. 

Willie,  listen  to  the  bells 

Ringing  in  the  town  to-day  ; 
That 's  for  victory.     No  knell  swells 

For  the  many  swept  away,  — 
Hundreds,  thousands.     Let  us  weep, 
"We,  who  need  not,  — just  to  keep 
Reason  clear  in  thought  and  brain 
Till  the  morning  comes  again  ; 
Till  the  third  dread  morning  tell 
Who  they  were  that  fought  and — fell 
By  the  Alma  River. 

Come,  —  we  '11  lay  us  down,  my  child  ; 

Poor  the  bed  is,  —  poor  and  hard  ; 
But  thy  father,  far  exiled, 

Sleeps  upon  the  open  sward, 
Dreaming  of  us  two  at  home  ; 
Or,  beneath  the  starry  dome, 
Digs  out  trenches  in  the  dark, 
Where  he  buries  —  Willie,  mark  !  — 
Where  he  buries  those  who  died 
Fighting  —  fighting  at  his  side  — 
By  the  Alma  River. 

Willie,  Willie,  go  to  sleep  ; 

God  will  help  us,  0  my  boy  ! 
He  will  make  the  dull  hours  creep 

Faster,  and  send  news  of  joy  ; 

When  I  need  not  shrink  to  meet 

Those  great  placards  in  the  street, 

That  for  weeks  will  ghastly  stare 

In  some  eyes  —  child,  say  that  prayer 

Once  again,  — a  different  one,  — 

Say,  "0  God  !  Thy  will  be  done 

By  the  Alma  River." 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock. 


THE  WIFE   TO   HER  HUSBAND. 

LINGER  not  long.  Home  is  not  home  without  thee  : 
Its  dearest  tokens  do  but  make  me  mourn. 

(),  let  its  memory,  like  a  chain  about  thee, 
Gently  compel  and  ba  rten  thy  return  ! 

Linger  mot  long.     Though  crowds  should  woo  thy 
staying, 
Bethink   t Ii •  ■• -,   <-:i n   the  mirth  of  thy  friends, 
though  dear, 
•  "< > 1 1 1 J M-ii  :it<-  for  the  grief  thy  long  delaying 
Costs  the  fon<l  heart  thai  sighs  to  have  thee  here  ' 

"Linger  not  long.     How  shall  I  watch  thy  coming, 

As  evening  shailows  stretch  o'er  moor  and  dell ; 

When  thewildbee  hath  ceased  her  busy  humming, 

And  silence  lungs  on  all  tilings  like  a  spell  1 


How  shall  I  watch  for  thee,  when  fears  grow 
stronger, 

As  night  grows  dark  and  darker  on  the  hill ! 
How  shall  1  weep,  when  I  can  watch  no  longer ! 

Ah  !  art  thou  absent,  art  thou  absent  still  \ 

Yet  I  should  grieve  not,  though  the  eye  that  seeth 
me 

Gazeth  through  tears  that  make  its  splendor  dull ; 
For  oh  !  I  sometimes  fear  when  thou  art  with  me, 

My  cup  of  happiness  is  all  too  full. 

Haste,  haste  thee  home  to  thy  mountain  dwelling, 

Haste,  as  a  bird  unto  its  peaceful  nest  ! 
Haste,  as  a  skiff,   through  tempests  wide  and 
swelling, 

Flies  to  its  haven  of  securest  rest ! 

Anonymous. 


ABSENCE. 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face  ? 

How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 
Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of  grace  ? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense,  — 
Weary  with  longing  ?     Shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day  ? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of  time  ? 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked  within, 
Leave  and  forget  life's  purposes  sublime  ? 

0,  how  or  by  what  means  may  I  contrive 

To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more 
near  ? 

How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here  ? 

I  '11  tell  thee  ;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee. 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one  !  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 

All  hc;i  ven  ward  High  ts,  all  high  and  holy  strains  : 

For  thy  dear  sake  1  will  walk  patiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their  min- 
utes pains. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time  ;   and  will  therein  strive 
|  To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 

More  good  than  I  have  won  since  yet  I  live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 

A  thousand  graces,  which  shall  thus  be  thine  ; 
.  So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 


Frances  Anne  kj 


-ff 


a- 


158 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


DISAPPOINTMENT    AND    ESTRANGEMENT, 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOYE. 

FROM    "  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S   DREAM." 

For  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 

Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 

The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth  : 

But,  either  it  was  different  in  blood, 

Or  else  misgraffed  in  respect  of  years  ; 

Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends  ; 

Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 

War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it, 

Making  it  momentany  as  a  sound, 

Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream  ; 

Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 

That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 

And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say,  —  Behold  ! 

The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 

So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Shakespeare. 


THE  BANKS   0'   DOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair  ? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care  ? 
Thou  'It  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wantons  through  the  flowering  thorn  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 

Departed  —  never  to  return. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine  ; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 
And,  fondly,  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pou'd  a  rose, 
Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  ; 

And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Robert  Burns. 


AULD   ROBIN   GRAY. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at 

hame, 
And  a'  the  warld  to  sleep  are  gane  ; 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 
When  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 


Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  weel,  and  socht  me  for  his 

bride  ; 
But,  saving  a  croun,  he  had  naething  else  beside. 
To  mak  that  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to 

sea  ; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me  ! 

He  hadna  been  awa  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  the  cow  was 

stown  awa ; 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  and  young  Jamie  at  the 

sea,  — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  cou'dna  work,  and  my  mother  cou'dna 

spin  ; 
I  toiled  day  and  nicht,  but  their  bread  I  cou'dna 

win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi'  tears 

in  his  ee, 
Said,  "Jenny,  for  their  sakes,  0  marry  me  !  " 

My  heart  it  said   nay,  for  I  looked  for  Jamie 

back  ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a 

wrack  ; 
The  ship  it  was  a  wrack  !     Why  didna  Jamie 

dee? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae  's  me  ? 

My  father  argued  sair,  —  my  mother  didna  speak, 
But  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like 

to  break  ; 
Sae  they  gied  him  my  hand,  though  my  heart 

was  in  the  sea  ; 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife,  a  week  but  only  four, 
When,  sitting  sae  mournfully  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  cou'dna  think  it  he, 
Till  he  said,  "I'm  come  back  for  to  marry  thee  ! " 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say  ; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves  away  : 

1  wish  I  were  dead,  but  I  'm  no  like  to  dee  ; 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae 's  me  ? 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin  ; 

I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin  ; 

But  I  '11  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be, 

For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  anne  Barnard 


tfl- 


DISAPPOINTMENT   AND   ESTRANGEMENT. 


159 


AULD   ROB   MORRIS. 

There  's  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon  glen, 
He 's  the  king  o'  guid  fellows  and  wale  of  auld 

men : 
He  has  gowd  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen  and  kine, 
And  ae  honnie  lassie,  his  darling  and  mine. 

She  's  fresh  as  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May  ; 
She 's  sweet  as  the  ev'ning  amang  the  new  hay  ; 
As  blythe  and  as  artless  as  the  lambs  on  the  lea, 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  e'e. 

But  0,  she  's  an  heiress,  auld  Robin  's  a  laird, 
And  my  daddie  has  naught  but  a  cot-house  and 

yard  ; 
A  wooer  like  me  maunna  hope  to  come  speed, 
The  wounds  I  must  hide  that  will  soon  be  my 

dead. 

The  day  comes  to   me,  but  delight   brings  me 

nane  : 
The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is  gane  ; 
I  wander  my  lane  like  a  night-troubled  ghaist, 
And  I  sigh  as  my  heart  it  wad  burst  in  my  breast. 

0,  had  she  but  been  of  a  lower  degree, 

I  then  might  hae  hoped  she  wad  smiled  upon 

me  ! 
O,  how  past  describing  had  then  been  my  bliss, 
As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  express  ! 

Robert  Burns. 


CLAUDE     MELNOTTE'S    APOLOGY    AND 
DEFENCE. 

Pauline,  by  pride 
Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time  ;  by  pride,  — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mould  — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love 
And  a  revengeful  heart,  had  power  upon  thee. 
From  my  first  years  my  soul  was  filled  with  thee  ; 
I  saw  thee  midst  the  flowers  the  lowly  boy 
Tended,  unmarked  by  thee,  —  a  spirit  of  bloom, 
And  joy  and  freshness,  as  spring  itself 
Were  made  a  Living  thing,  and  wore  thy  shape  ! 
1  saw  thee,  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 
Entered  tin-  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy  ; 
And  from  thai  hour  I  grew-  -what  to  the  last 
I  shall  be  —  thine  adorer  !     Well,  this  love, 
Vain,  frantic, — guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  became 
A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope  ; 
I  thought  of  talcs  that  by  the  winter  bearth 
Old  gossips   tell, — how  maidens  sprung  from 

kings 
Have  stooped  from  their  high  sphere  ;  how  Love, 

like  Heath, 
Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 


Beside  the  sceptre.     Thus  I  made  my  home 

In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  Future  ! 

My  father  died  ;  and  I,  the  peasant-born, 

Was  my  own  lord.     Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 

Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate  ; 

And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  mind 

Brings  from  the  caves  of  Knowledge,  buy  my 

ransom 
From  those  twin  jailers  of  the  daring  heart,  — 
Low  birth  and  iron  fortune.     Thy  bright  image, 
Glassed  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glory, 
And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 
By  which  man  masters  men  !     For  thee,  I  grew 
A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages  ! 
For  thee,  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  Grace 
And  every  Muse  such  attributes  as  lend 
Ideal  charms  to  Love.     I  thought  of  thee, 
And  passion  taught  me  poesy,  —  of  thee, 
And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  Life 
Of  beauty  !  — ■  Art  became  the  shadow 
Of  the  dear  starlight  of  thy  haunting  eyes  ! 
Men  called  me  vain,  —  some,  mad,  —  I  heeded 

not ; 
But  still  toiled  on,  hoped  on,  —  for  it  was  sweet, 
If  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy,  thee  ! 

At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  pour 
The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song, 
And  sent  them  to  thee,  —  such  a  tribute,  lady, 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name  —  appended  by  the  burning  heart 
That  longed  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 
It  had  created  —  yea,  the  enthusiast's  name, 
That  should   have  been  thy  triumph,  was  thy 

scorn  ! 
That  very  hour  —  when  passion,  turned  to  wrath, 
Resembled  hatred  most ;  when  thy  disdain 
Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos  —  in  that  hour 
The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 
For  their  revenge  !     Thou  hadst  trampled  on  the 

worm,  — 

It  turned,  and  stung  thee  ! 

Lord  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton. 


LEFT   BEHIND. 

It  was  the  autumn  of  the  year  ; 
The  strawberry-leaves  were  red  and  sear  ; 
October's  airs  were  fresh  and  chill, 
When,  pausing  on  the  windy  hill, 
The  bill  that  overlooks  the  sea, 
You  talked  confidingly  to  me,  — 
Me  whom  your  keen,  artistic  sight 
Has  not  yet  learned  to  read  aright, 
Since  I  have  veiled  my  heart  from  you, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 


B- 


-ff 


1G0 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


& 


You  told  me  of  your  toilsome  past ; 
The  tardy  honors  won  at  last, 
The  trials  home,  the  conquests  gained, 
The  longed-for  boon  of  Fame  attained  ; 
I  knew  that  every  victory 
But  lifted  you  away  from  me, 
That  every  step  of  high  emprise 
But  left  me  lowlier  in  your  eyes  ; 
I  watched  the  distance  as  it  grew, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  did  not  see  the  bitter  trace 
Of  anguish  sweep  across  my  face  ; 
You  did  not  hear  my  proud  heart  beat, 
Heavy  and  slow,  beneath  your  feet ; 
You  thought  of  triumphs  still  unwon, 
Of  glorious  deeds  as  yet  undone  ; 
And  I,  the  while  you  talked  to  me, 
I  watched  the  gulls  float  lonesomely, 
Till  lost  amid  the  hungry  blue, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

You  walk  the  sunny  side  of  fate  ; 
The  wise  world  smiles,  and  calls  you  great  ; 
The  golden  fruitage  of  success 
Drops  at  your  feet  in  plenteousness  ; 
And  you  have  blessings  manifold  : 
Renown  and  power  and  friends  and  gold, 
They  build  a  wall  between  us  twain, 
Which  may  not  be  thrown  down  again, 
Alas  !  for  I,  the  long  years  through, 
Have  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

Your  life's  proud  aim,  your  art's  high  truth, 
Have  kept  the  promise  of  your  youth  ; 
And  while  you  won  the  crown,  which  now 
Breaks  into  bloom  upon  your  brow, 
My  soul  cried  strongly  out  to  you 
Across  the  ocean's  yearning  blue, 
While,  unremembered  and  afar, 
I  watched  you,  as  I  watch  a  star 
Through  darkness  struggling  into  view, 
And  loved  you  better  than  you  knew. 

I  used  to  dream  in  all  these  years 

Of  patient  faith  and  silent  tears, 

That  Love's  strong  hand  would  put  aside 

The  barriers  of  place  and  pride, 

Would  reach  the  pathless  darkness  through, 

And  draw  me  softly  up  to  you  ; 

But  that  is  past.     If  you  should  stray 

Beside  my  grave,  some  future  day, 

Perchance  the  violets  o'er  my  dust 

Will  half  betray  their  buried  trust, 

And  say,  their  blue  eyes  full  of  dew, 

"She  loved  you  better  than  you  knew." 

FLORENCE  PERCY. 


LINDA   TO   HAFED. 

FROM    "THE    FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." 

"How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid, 
Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid, 
So  long  had  they  in  silence  stood, 
Looking  upon  that  moonlight  flood,  — 
' '  How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam  smile 
To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle  ! 
Oft  in  my  fancy's  wanderings, 
I  've  wished  that  little  isle  had  wings, 
And  we,  within  its  fairy  bowers, 

Were  wafted  off  to  seas  unknown, 
Where  not  a  pulse  should  beat  but  ours, 

And  we  might  live,  love,  die  alone  ! 
Far  from  the  cruel  and  the  cold,  — 

Where  the  bright  eyes  of  angels  only 
Should  come  around  us,  to  behold 

A  paradise  so  pure  and  lonely  ! 
Would  this  be  world  enough  for  thee  ?  "  — 
Playful  she  turned,  that  he  might  see 

The  passing  smile  her  cheek  put  on  ; 
But  when  she  marked  how  mournfully 

His  eyes  met  hers,  that  smile  was  gone  ; 
And,  bursting  into  heartfelt  tears, 
"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "my  hourly  fears, 
My  dreams,  have  boded  all  too  right,  — 
We  part  —  forever  part  —  to-night  ! 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  last,  — 
'T  was  bright,  't  was  heavenly,  but  'tis  past ! 
0,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I  've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  ; 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower 

But  't  was  the  first  to  fade  away. 
I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die  ! 
Now,  too,  the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew, 

To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine,  — 

0  misery  !  must  I  lose  that  too  ? 

Thomas  Moore. 


UNREQUITED   LOVE. 

FROM    "  TWELFTH    NIGHT." 

Viola.  Ay,  but  I  know,  — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Viola.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may 
owe  : 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what 's  her  history  ? 


ty-- 


-B1 


:  IT- 


DISAPPOINTMENT  AND   ESTRANGEMENT. 


161 


•-a 


Viola.  A   blank,  my   lord.     She  never   told 
her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek ;  she  pined  in  thought ; 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  Patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed? 
AVe  men  may  say  more,  swear  more  :  but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love, 


Shakespeare. 


Q- 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet 

't  is  early  morn,  — 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound 

upon  the  bugle  horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the 

curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland,  flying  over 

Locksley  Hall  : 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the 

sandy  tracts, 
And     the    hollow     ocean-ridges     roaring     into 

cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I 

went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the 

west. 

Many  a  night   I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  through 

the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver 

braii  1. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wandered,  nourishing  a 

youth  sublime 
With  the   fairy  talus    of  science,  and  the   long 
result  of  time  ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful 

land  reposed  ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise 

that  it  closed  ; 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye 

could  see,  — 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be. 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the 

robin'a  breast ; 
In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himseli 

another  crest ; 

11 


In    the   spring   a  livelier   iris   changes   on  the 

burnished  dove ; 
In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns 

to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should 

be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute 

observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  ' '  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak 

the  truth  to  me  ; 
Trust   me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being 

sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a   color 

and  a  light, 
As   I   have   seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 

northern  night. 

And   she   turned,  —her  bosom  shaken   with   a 

sudden  storm  of  sighs  ; 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in   the  dark  of 

hazel  eyes,  — 

Saying,  ' '  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they 

should  do  me  wrong  "  ; 
Saying,  "  Dost  thoii  love  me,  cousin  ?  "  weeping, 

"  I  have  loved  thee  long." 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  time,  and  turned  it  in 

his  glowing  hands ; 
Every   moment,    lightly   shaken,   ran   itself  in 
.  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life,  and  smote  on  all 

the  chords  with  might  ; 
Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that,  trembling,  passed 

in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the 

copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  thronged  my  pulses  with  the 

fulness  of  the  spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the 

stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching 

of  the  lips. 

0   my   cousin,  shallow-hearted  !     0   my   Amy, 

mine  no  more  ! 
0  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  I     0  the  barren, 

barren  shore  ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs 

have  sung,  — 
Puppet    to   a   father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a 

shrewish  tongue ! 


-ff 


t 


162 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■a 


Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ?  —  having  known 

mo  ;  to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart 

than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day 
by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sym- 
pathize with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is ;  thou  art  mated 

with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight 

to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have 

spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than 

his  horse. 

What  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy,  —  think  not 

they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him  ;  it  is  thy  duty,  —  kiss  him  ;  take  his 

hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is 

overwrought,  — 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with 

thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  un- 
derstand, — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  though  I  slew 
thee  with  my  hands. 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the 

heart's  disgrace, 
Piolled  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last 

embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the 

strength  of  youth  ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the 

living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest 

nature's  rule  ! 
( horsed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straitened  fore- 

head  of  the  fool  I 

Well  —  't  is  well  that  I  should  bluster  !  —  Hadst 

thou  less  unworthy  proved, 
Would  to  God  —  for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than 

ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears 

but  bitter  fruit  ? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my  heart 

be  at  the  root. 


Never  !  though  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length 
of  years  should  come 

As  the  many-wintered  crow  that  leads  the  clang- 
ing rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  ?  in  division  of  the  records  of 

the  mind  ? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  1 

knew  her,  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perished ;  sweetly  did  she 

speak  and  move  ; 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was 

to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the 

love  she  bore  ? 
No,  —  she  never  loved  me  truly  ;  love  is  love  for- 

evermore. 

Comfort  ?  comfort  scorned  of  devils  !  this  is  truth 

the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering 

happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy 

heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead,  unhappy  night,,  and  when  the  rain 

is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams  ;  and  thou  art 

staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and   the 

shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to 

his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widowed  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears 

that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "  Never,  never,"  whispered 

by  the  phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing 

of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kind- 
ness on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow  ;  get  thee  to 
thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  nature  brings  thee  solace  ;  for  a  tender 

voice  will  cry  ; 
'T  is  a  purer  life  than  thine,  a  lip  to  drain  thy 

trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  ;  my  latest  rival 

brings  thee  rest,  — ■ 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  tha 

mother's  breast. 


cB-~ 


■ff 


fr 


DISAPPOINTMENT  AND   ESTRANGEMENT. 


~±1 


163 


0,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  clear- 
ness not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  :  it  will  be  worthy 
of  the  two. 

0,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty 

part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a 

daughter's  heart. 

"  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she 

herself  was  not  exempt  — 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffered  "  — Perish  in  thy 

self-contempt ! 

Overlive  it  —  lower  yet  —  be  happy  !  wherefore 

'   should  I  care  ? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by 
despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting 

upon  days  like  these  ? 
Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to 

golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  thronged  with   suitors,   all  the 

markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy  :  what  is  that  which  I 

should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foe- 
man's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  rolled  in  vapor,  and  the 
winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt 

that  honor  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each 

other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness  ?  I  will  turn  that 
earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  0  thou  won- 
drous mother-age  1 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  be- 
fore the  strife, 

When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tu- 
mult of  my  life  ; 


And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  be- 
fore him  then, 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the 
throngs  of  men ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reap- 
ing something  new  : 

That  which  they  have  done,  but  earnest  of  the 
things  that  they  shall  do  : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could 

see, 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of 

magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with 

costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there 

rained  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the 

central  blue ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south- 
wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  through 
the  thunder-storm ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbbed  no  longer,  and  the 

battle-flags  were  furled 
In  the  parliament  of  man,  the  federation  of  the 

world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a 
fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  uni- 
versal law. 

So  I  triumphed  ere  my  passion  sweeping  through 

me  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with 

the  jaundiced  eye ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are 

out  of  joint. 
Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on 

from  point  to  point : 


Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  com-  Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creep- 
ing years  would  yield,  ing  nigher, 

Eager-hearted  as  a  hoy  when  first  he  leaves  his  '  Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowky 

father's  field,  dying  fire. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  Yet  I  doubl  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing 

nearer  drawn,  pm  pose  runs, 

Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with  the 

dreary  dawn  ;  process  of  the  BUDS. 


B- 


-B1 


a- 


164 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■a 


"What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his 

youthful  joys, 
Though  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever 

like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers  ;    and  I 

linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more 

and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he 
bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience  moving  toward  the  still- 
ness of  his  rest. 

Hark  !  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on 

the  bugle  horn,  — 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target 

for  their  scorn  ; 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a 

mouldered  string  ? 
I  am  shamed  through  all  my  nature  to  have  loved 

so  slight  a  thing. 

"Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  woman's 

pleasure,  woman's  pain  — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a 

shallower  brain  ; 

"Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions, 

matched  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water 

unto  wine  — 


Droops  the    heavy-blossomed  bower,  hangs  the 

heavy-fruited  tree,  — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres 

of  sea. 

There,  methinks,  would  be  enjoyment  more  than 

in  this  march  of  mind  — 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts 

that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions,  cramped  no  longer,  shall  have 

scope  and  breathing-space  ; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my 

dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinewed,  they  shall  dive,  and 

they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their 

lances  in  the  sun, 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rain- 
bows of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable 
books  — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I  know  my 

words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the 

Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our 

glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast 

with  lower  pains  ! 


Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.     Ah    Mated  with  a  squalid  savage,  —  what  to  me  were 

for  some  retreat  sun  or  clime  ? 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life    I,  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  hies  of 


began  to  beat  ! 


time,  — 


"Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father,  I,  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish 

evil-starred  ;  one  by  one, 

I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's 

ward.  moon  in  Ajalon  ! 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit,  —  there  to  wander  Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward, 
far  away,  forward  let  us  range  ; 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ring- 
day,  —  ing  grooves  of  change. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into 
happy  skies,  the  younger  day  : 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 
knots  of  Paradise.  Cathay. 

• 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  Mother-age,  (for  mine  I  knew  not,)  help  me  as 

flag,  —  when  life  begun,  — 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  '  Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  light- 


trailer  from  the  crag, 


nings,  weigh  the  sun, 


t& 


-ff 


a- 


DISAPPOINTMENT  AND   ESTRANGEMENT. 


165 


■a 


O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath 

not  set ; 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  through  all  my 

fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these   things   be,  a  long  farewell  to 

Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the 

roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over 

heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a 

thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or 

fire  or  snow  ; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and 

I  go. 

°  Alfred  Tennyson. 


ONLY  A  WOMAN. 

"  She  loves  with  love  that  cannot  tire : 

And  if,  ah,  woe  I  she  loves  alone, 
Through  passionate  duty  love  flames  higher. 

As  grass  grows  taller  round  a  stone." 

Coventry  Patmore. 

So,  the  truth 's  out.     I  '11  grasp  it  like  a  snake,  — 
It  will  not  slay  me.     My  heart  shall  not  break 
Awhile,  if  only  for  the  children's  sake. 

For  his,  too,  somewhat.  Let  him  stand  unblamed ; 
None  say,  he  gave  me  less  than  honor  claimed,  ' 
Except  —  one  trifle  scarcely  worth  being  named— 

The  heart.    That 's  gone.    The  corrupt  dead  might 

be 
As  easily  raised  up,  breathing,  —  fair  to  see, 
As  lie  could  bring  his  whole  heart  back  to  me. 

I  never  sought  him  in  coquettish  sport, 

Or  courted  him  as  silly  maidens  court, 

And  wonder  when  the  longed-for  prize  falls  short. 

I  only  loved  him,  —any  woman  would  : 
Bui  shut  my  love  up  til]  he  came  and  sued 
Then  poured  it  o'er  his  dry  life  like  a  flood.' 

I  was  so  happy  I  could  make  him  blest  !  — 

So  happy  that  I  was  his  first  and  best, 

As  he  mine,  —when  he  took  me  to  his  breast. 

All  me  !  if  only  then  he  had  been  true  ! 

[f  for  one  little  year,  a  month  or  two, 

He  had  given  me  love  for  love,  as  was  my  due! 

Or  had  he  told  me,  ere  the  deed  was  done 
He  only  raised  me  to  bis  heart's  dear  throne- 
Poor  substitute  — because  the  queen  was  gone  1 


0,  had  he  whispered,  when  his  sweetest  kiss 
Was  warm  upon  my  mouth  in  fancied  bliss, 
He  had  kissed  another  woman  even  as  this, 

It  were  less  bitter  !     Sometimes  I  could  weep 
To  be  thus  cheated,  like  a  child  asleep  ;  — 
Were  not  my  anguish  far  too  dry  and  deep. 

So  I  built  my  house  upon  another's  ground  ;' 
Mocked  with  a  heart  just  caught  at  the  rebound  — 
A  cankered  thing  that  looked  so  firm  and  sound. 

And  when  that  heart  grew  colder,  —  colder  still, 
I,  ignorant,  tried  all  duties  to  fulfil, 
Blaming  my  foolish  pain,  exacting  will, 

All,  —  anything  but  him.     It  was  to  be 
The  full  draught  others  drink  up  carelessly 
Was  made  this  bitter  Tantalus-cup  for  me. 

I  say  again,  —  he  gives  me  all  I  claimed, 
I  and  my  children  never  shall  be  shamed  : 
He  is  a  just  man,  —  he  will  live  unblamed. 

Only  — 0  God,  0  God,  to  cry  for  bread, 
And  get  a  stone  !  Daily  to  lay  my  head 
Upon  a  bosom  where  the  old  love  's  dead  ! 

Dead?— Fool!  It  never  lived.  It  only  stirred 
Galvanic,  like  an  hour-cold  corpse.  None  heard  : 
So  let  me  bury  it  without  a  word. 

He  '11  keep  that  other  woman  from  my  sight. 
I  know  not  if  her  face  be  foul  or  bright ;  & 
I  only  know  that  it  was  his  delight 

As  his  was  mine  ;  I  only  know  he  stands 
Pale,  at  the  touch  of  their  long-severed  hands, 
Then  to  a  flickering  smile  his  lips  commands,' 

Lest  I  should  grieve,  or  jealous  anger  show. 
He  need  not.   When  the  ship 's  gone  down,  I  trow, 
We  little  reck  whatever  wind  may  blow. 

And  so  my  silent  moan  begins  and  ends, 

No  world's  laugh  or  world's  taunt,   no  pity  of 

friends 
Or  sneer  of  foes,  with  this  my  tormenl  blends. 

None  knows,  — none  heeds.    1  have  a  little  pride; 
Enough  to  stand  up,  wifelike,  by  his  side. 
With  the  same  smile  as  when  I  was  his  bride. 

And  I  shall  take  his  children  to  my  arms  ■ 
Theywillnot  miasthese  fading,  worthless  charms; 

The.,-  kiss  — ah  !  unlike  bis—  all  pain  disarms. 

And  haply  as  the  solemn  years  go  by 

He  will  think  sometimes,  with  regretful  sigh, 

The  other  woman  was  less  true  than  I. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock. 


■4 


1G6 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIOXS. 


-a 


IX   A   YEAR. 

Never  any  more 

While  1  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive,  — 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace, 

Single  still. 

"Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him  ?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange  !  that  very  way 

Love  begun. 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sang 

—  Sweetly  too. 
If  I  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprang, 
Then  he  heard. 

Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 
So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed, 

Satisfied  ! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet. 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 

"  Speak,  —  I  love  thee  best  !  " 

He  exclaimed,  — - 
"Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell." 

I  confessed  : 
"  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed, 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine  ! " 

"Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth  ? 
"Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone  ? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth,  — 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 

That  was  all  I  meant, 

—  To  be  just, 

And  the  passion  I  had  raised 
To  content. 


Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised, 

Was  it  strange  ? 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed, 

—  Paid  my  debt  ! 
Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till,  all  gone, 
He  should  smile,  ' '  She  never  seemed 

Mine  before. 

"What  — she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think  ? 
Love  's  so  different  with  us  men," 

He  should  smile. 
"  Dying  for  my  sake  — 

White  and  pink  ! 
Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

But  they  break  ? " 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure.     How  perplext 

Grows  belief ! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart. 

Crumble  it,  —  and  what  comes  next  ? 

Is  it  God  ? 

Robert  Browning. 


ENOCH  AEDEN  AT  THE  WINDOW. 

But  Enoch  yearned  to  see  her  face  again  ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."     So  the  thought 
Haunted  and  harassed  him,  and  drove  him  forth 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below  : 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's  house, 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward  ;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  opened  on  the  waste, 
Flourished  a  little  garden  square  and  walled  : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it  : 
But  Enoch  shunned  the  middle  walk  and  stole 


tfl- 


& 


rR 


DISAPPOINTMENT   AND   ESTRANGEMENT. 


1G7 


ft 


Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew  ;  and  thence 
That   which  he  better  might  have  shunned,  if 

griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnished  board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the  hearth  ; 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees  ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-haired  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  reared  his  creasy  arms, 
Caught  at  and  ever  missed  it,  and  they  laughed  : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him, 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong, 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee, 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happiness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place, 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's  love,  — 
Then  he,  though  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all, 
Because  things  seen  are  might  ier  than  things  heard, 
Staggered  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and 

feared 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
"Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
"Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found, 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  opened  it,  and  closed, 
As. lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door, 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  ujion  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that  his 
knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  lingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  prayed.  . 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


LOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM. 

0  the  days  are  gone  when  beauty  bright 

My  heart's  chain  wove  ! 
When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till  night, 

Was  love,   still   love  ! 


New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam, 
But  there  's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream  ! 
0,  there  's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream  ! 

Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth  's  past  ; 
Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frowned  before, 

To  smile  at  last ; 

He  '11  never  meet 

A  joy  so  sweet 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame 
As  when  hrst  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame, 
And  at  every  close  she  blushed  to  hear 

The  one  loved  name  ! 

0,  that  hallowed  form  is  ne'er  forgot, 

Which  first  love  traced  ; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 

On  memory's  waste  ! 
'T  was  odor  fled 
As  soon  as  shed  ; 

'T  was  morning's  winged  Jream  ; 
'T  was  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  ! 
0,  't  was  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  ! 

THOMAS  MOORE  ("  Irish  Melodies"). 


WHEN   THE   LAMP   IS    SHATTERED. 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead  ; 
When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 
When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not  ; 
When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendor 

Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 

No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute,  — 

No  song  hut  sad  dirges, 

Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-lmilt  nest; 
The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possesst. 


c&- 


& 


1G8 


TOEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


O  Love  !  who  bewailest 

The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier  ? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  ; 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee 

Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 

"Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 

When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLEY. 


MARY,    I   BELIEVED   THEE   TRUE. 

Mary,  I  believed  thee  true, 

And  I  was  blest  in  thus  believing  ; 
But  now  I  mourn  that  e'er  I  knew 

A  girl  so  fair  and  so  deceiving. 
Few  have  ever  loved  like  me  ; 

0,  I  have  loved  thee  too  sincerely  ! 
And  few  have  e'er  deceived  like  thee, 

Alas  !  deceived  me  too  severely. 
Fare  thee  well ! 

Fare  thee  well  !  yet  think  awhile 

On  one  whose  bosom  seems  to  doubt  thee  ; 
Who  now  would  rather  trust  that  smile, 

And  die  with  thee  than  live  without  thee. 
Fare  thee  well  !    I  '11  think  on  thee, 

Thou  leav'st  me  many  a  bitter  token  ; 
For  see,  distracting  woman,  see 

My  peace  is  gone,  my  heart  is  broken. 

Fare  thee  well  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


HAD    I   A   CAVE. 

Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore, 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves'  dashing  roar, 
There  would  I  weep  my  woes, 
There  seek  my  lost  repose, 
Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close, 
Ne'er  to  wake  more  ! 

Falsest  of  womankind  !  canst  thou  declare 

All  thy  fond-plighted  vows,  —  fleeting  as  air  ?  • 

To  thy  new  lover  hie, 

Laugh  o'er  thy  perjury, 

Then  in  thy  bosom  try 
What  peace  is  there  ! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


TAKE,    0,    TAKE   THOSE   LIPS   AWAY. 

FROM    "MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE." 

Take,  0,  take  those  lips  away, 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  mom  ; 

But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain. 

Hide,  0,  hide  those  hills  of  snow 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears, 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  that  April  wears ! 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

SHAKESPEARE  and  JOHN  FLETCHER. 


I   LOVED  A  LASS,    A   FAIR  ONE. 

I  loved  a  lass,  a  fair  one, 

As  fair  as  e'er  was  seen  ; 
She  was  indeed  a  rare  one, 

Another  Sheba  Queen  ; 
But  fool  as  then  1  was, 

I  thought  she  loved  me  too, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

Her  hair  like  gold  did  glister, 

Each  eye  was  like  a  star, 
She  did  surpass  her  sister 

Which  past  all  others  far  ; 
She  would  me  honey  call, 

She  'd,  0  —  she  'd  kiss  me  too, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

In  summer  time  to  Medley, 

My  love  and  I  would  go,  — 
The  boatmen  there  stood  ready 

My  love  and  I  to  row  ; 
For  cream  there  would  we  call, 

For  cakes,  and  for  prunes  too, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

Many  a  merry  meeting 

My  love  and  I  have  had  ; 
She  was  my  only  sweeting, 

She  made  my  heart  full  glad ; 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes, 

Like  to  the  morning  dew, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 


■B- 


-i 


DISAPPOINTMENT   AND   ESTRANGEMENT. 


1G9 


"ft 


And  as  abroad  we  walked, 

As  lovers'  fashion  is, 
Oft  as  we  sweetly  talked, 

The  sun  would  steal  a  kiss  ; 
The  wind  upon  her  lips 

Likewise  most  sweetly  blew; 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

Her  cheeks  were  like  the  cherry, 

Her  skin  as  white  as  simw, 
When  she  was  blithe  and  merry, 

She  angeblike  did  show  ; 
Her  waist  exceeding  small, 

The  fives  did  fit  her  shoe, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

In  summer  time  or  winter, 

She  had  her  heart's  desire  ; 
I  still  did  scorn  to  stint  her, 

From  sugar,  sack,  or  fire  ; 
The  world  went  round  about, 

No  cares  we  ever  knew, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

As  we  walked  home  together 

At  midnight  through  the  town, 
To  keep  away  the  weather,  — 

O'er  her  I  'd  cast  my  gown  ; 
No  cold  my  love  should  feel, 

Whate'er  the  heavens  could  do, 
But  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

Like  doves  we  would  be  billing, 

And  clip  and  kiss  so  fast, 
Yet  she  would  be  unwilling 

That  I  should  kiss  the  last  ; 
They  're  Judas  kisses  now, 

Since  that  they  proved  untrue  ; 
For  now,  alas  !  sh'  'as  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

To  maiden's  vows  and  swearing. 

Henceforth  no  credit  trive, 
You  may  give  them  the  hearing, — 

But  never  them  believe  ; 
They  are  as  false  .-is  fair, 

Unconstant,  frail,  untrue  ; 
For  mine,  alas'  hath  lefl  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

'T  was  T  that  paid  for  all  things, 
'T  was  other  drank  the  wine  ; 

I  cannot  now  recall  things, 
Live  but  a  fool  to  pine  : 


'T  was  I  that  beat  the  bush, 

The  birds  to  others  flew, 
For  she,  alas  !  hath  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

If  ever  that  Dame  Nature, 

For  this  false  lover's  sake, 
Another  pleasing  creature 

Like  unto  her  would  make  ; 
Let  her  remember  this, 

To  make  the  other  true, 
For  this,  alas  !  hath  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

No  riches  now  can  raise  me, 

No  want  makes  me  despair, 

No  misery  amaze  me, 

Nor  yet  for  want  I  care  ; 

I  have  lost  a  world  itself, 

My  earthly  heaven,  adieu  ! 

Since  she,  alas  !  hath  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo. 

George  Wither. 


WHY  SO   PALE  AND   WAN  — 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Pr'y  thee,  why  so  pale  ?  — 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Pr'y  thee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Pr'y  thee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do  't  ? 

Pr'y  thee,  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame  !  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her  : 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her  : 

The  devil  take  her  ! 

Sir  John  suckling. 


ALAS  !    HOW     LIGHT     A     CAUSE     MAY 
MOVE  — 

FROM    "  THE    LIGHT    OF   THE    HAREM." 

ALAS  !   how  light  a  cause  may  move 

Dissension  between  hearts  that  love  !  — 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  has  tried, 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied  ; 

That  stood  the  storm  when  waves  were  rough, 

Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fall  off, 

Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 

When  heaven  was  all  tranquillity  ! 


# 


170 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


fj 


A  something  light  as  air,  —  a  look, 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken,  — 
0,  love  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath,  a  touch  like  this  has  shaken  ! 
And  ruder  words  will  soon  rush  in 
To  spread  the  breach  that  words  begin  ; 
And  eyes  forget  the  gentle  ray 
They  wore  in  courtship's  smiling  day  ; 
And  voices  lose  the  tone  that  shed 
A  tenderness  round  all  they  said  ; 
Till  fast  declining,  one  by  one, 
The  sweetnesses  of  love  are  gone, 
And  hearts,  so  lately  mingled,  seem 
Like  broken  clouds,  —  or  like  the  stream, 
That  smiling  left  the  mountain's  brow, 

As  though  its  waters  ne'er  could  sever, 
Yet,  ere  it  reach  the  plain  below, 

Breaks  into  floods  that  part  forever. 

0  you,  that  have  the  charge  of  Love, 

Keep  him  in  rosy  bondage  bound, 
As  in  the  Fields  of  Bliss  above 

He  sits,  with  flowerets  fettered  round  ;  — 
Loose  not  a  tie  'that  round  him  clings, 
Nor  ever  let  him  use  his  wings  ; 
For  even  an  hour,  a  minute's  flight 
Will  rob  the  plumes  of  half  their  light. 
Like  that  celestial  bird,  —  whose  nest 

Is  found  beneath  far  Eastern  skies,  — 
Whose  wings,  though  radiant  when  at  rest, 

Lose  all  their  glory  when  he  flies 


! 


Thomas  Moore. 


AUX   ITALIENS. 

At  Paris  it  was,  at  the  opera  there  ; 

And  she  looked  like  a  queen  in  a  book  that 
night, 
With  the  wreath  of  pearl  in  her  raven  hair, 

And  the  brooch  on  her  breast  so  bright. 

Of  all  the  operas  that  Verdi  wrote, 

The  best,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Trovatore  ; 

And  Mario  can  soothe,  with  a  tenor  note, 
The  souls  in  purgatory. 

The  moon  on  the  tower  slept  soft  as  snow  ; 

And  who  was  not  thrilled  in  the  strangest  way, 
As  we  heard  him  sing,  while  the  gas  burned  low, 

"  Non  ti  scordar  di  mc  ? " 

The  emperor  there,  in  his  box  of  state, 
Looked  grave  ;  as  if  he  had  just  then  seen 

The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city  gate, 
Where  his  eagles  in  bronze  had  been. 

The  empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her  eye  : 

You  'd  have  said  that  her  fancy  had  gone  back 


For  one  moment,  under  the  old  blue  sky, 
To  the  old  glad  life  in  Spain. 

Well !  there  in  our  front-row  box  we  sat 
Together,  my  bride  betrothed  and  I  ; 

My  gaze  was  fixed  on  my  opera  hat, 
And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by. 

And  both  were  silent,  and  both  were  sad ;  — 
Like  a  queen  she  leaned  on  her  full  white  arm, 

With  that  regal,  indolent  air  she  had  ; 
So  confident  of  her  charm  ! 

I  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking  then 

Of  her  former  lord,  good  soul  that  he  was,    - 
Who  died  the  richest  and  roundest  of  men, 
The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

I  hope  that,  to  get  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
Through  a  needle's  eye  he  had  not  to  pass  ; 

I  wish  him  well  for  the  jointure  given 
To  my  lady  of  Carabas. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  thinking  of  my  first  love 
As  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  aught  for  years  ; 

Till  over  my  eyes  there  began  to  move 
Something  that  felt  like  tears. 

I  thought  of  the  dress  that  she  ■wore  last  time, 
When  we  stood  'neath  the  cypress-trees  t'ogether, 

In  that  lost  land,  in  that  soft  clime,     - — 
In  the  crimson  evening  weather  ; 

Of  that  muslin  dress  (for  the  eve  was  hot)  ; 

And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its  golden  chain  ; 
And  her  full  soft  hair,  just  tied  in  a  knot, 

And  falling  loose  again  ; 

And  the  jasmine  flower  in  her  fair  young  breast  ; 

(0  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  that  jasmine  flower !) 
And  the  one  bird  singing  alone  to  his  nest  ; 

And  the  one  star  over  the  tower. 

I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and  strife, 

And  the  letter  that  brought  me  back  my  ring  ; 

And  it  all  seemed  then,  in  the  waste  of  life, 
Such  a  very  little  thing  ! 

For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  the  hill, 
Which  the  sentinel  cypress-tree  stands  over  : 

And  I  thought,  "Were  she  only  living  still, 
How  I  could  forgive  her  and  love  her  !  " 

And  I  swear,  as  I  thought  of  her  thus,  in  that  hour, 
And  of  how,  after  all,  old  things  are  best, 

That  I  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jasmine  flower 
Which  she  used  to  wear  in  her  breast. 

It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  so  sweet, 
It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  me  cold  ! 

Like  thescentthat  steals  from  the  crumbling  sheet 
Where  a  mummy  is  half  unrolled. 


-ff 


DISAPPOINTMENT   AND   ESTRANGEMENT. 


"HI 


171 


And  I  turned  and  looked  :  she  was  sitting  there, 
In  a  dim  box  over  the  stage  ;  and  drest 

In  that  muslin  dress,  with  that  full  soft  hair, 
And  that  jasmine  in  her  breast  ! 

I  was  here,  and  she  was  there  ; 

Andtheglitteringhorse-shoecurvedbetween: — 
From  my  bride  betrothed,  with  her  raven  hair 

And  her  sumptuous  scornful  mien, 

To  my  early  love  with  her  eyes  downcast, 
And  over  her  primrose  face  the  shade, 

(In  short,  from  the  future  back  to  the  past,) 
There  was  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

To  my  early  love  from  my  future  bride 

One  moment  Hooked.   Then  I  stole  to  the  door, 

I  traversed  the  passage  ;  and  down  at  her  side 
I  was  sitting,  a  moment  more. 

My  thinking  of  her,  or  the  music's  strain, 
Or  something  which  never  will  be  exprest, 

Had  brought  her  back  from  the  grave  again, 
"With  the  jasmine  in  her  breast. 

She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed  ! 

But  she  loves  me  now,  and  she  loved  me  then  ! 
And  the  very  first  word  that  her  sweet  lips  said, 

My  heart  grew  youthful  again. 

The  marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 

She  is  wealthy,  and  young,  and  handsome  still ; 
And  but  for  her  ....  well,  we'll  let  that  pass; 

She  may  marry  whomever  she  will. 

But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love, 

With  her  primrose  face,  for  old  things  are  best ; 
And  the  flower  in  her  bosom,  1  prize  it  above 

The  brooch  in  my  lady's  breast. 

The  world  is  filled  with  folly  and  sin, 
And  love  must  cling  where  it  can,  I  say  : 

For  beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win  ; 
But  one  isn't  loved  every  day. 

And  I  think,  in  the  lives  of  most  women  and  men, 
There 's  a  moment  when  all  would  go  smooth 

and  even, 
If  only  the  dead  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back  and  be  forgiven. 

But  0  the  smell  of  that  jasmine  flower  ! 

And  0  that  music  !   and  0  the  way 
That  voice  rang  out  from  the  donjon  tower, 

Xi'n  ti  8cordar  <li  me, 
Non  ti  sconlir  di  me  I 

KOIIERT  BULWI5R   I-YTTON. 


TRANSIENT    BEAUTY. 


THE   GIAOUR. 


As,  rising  on  its  purple  wing, 
The  insect-queen  of  Eastern  spring, 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer, 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 
And  leads  him  on  from  flower  to  flower, 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour, 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high, 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye  ; 
So  Beauty  lures  the  full-grown  child, 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wind  as  wild  ; 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  betrayed, 
Woe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid  : 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
From  infant's  play  and  man's  caprice  ; 
The  lovely  toy,  so  fiercely  sought, 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught ; 
For  every  touch  that  wooed  its  stay 
Hath  brushed  its  brightest  hues  away, 
Till,  charm  and  hue  and  beauty  gone, 
'T  is  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
With  wounded  wing  or  bleeding  breast, 
Ah  !   where  shall  either  victim  rest  ? 
Can  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 
From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  ? 
Or  Beauty,  blighted  in  an  hour, 
Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower  ? 
No  ;  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o'er  those  that  die, 
And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shown 
To  every  failing  but  their  own, 
And  every  woe  a  tear  can  claim, 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame. 

BYRON. 


WOMAN'S   INCONSTANCY. 

I  loved  thee  once,  I  '11  love  no  more, 
Thine  be  the  grief  as  is  the  blame  ; 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  wast  before. 
What  reason  I  should  be  the  same  ? 
He  that  can  love  unloved  again, 
Hath  better  store  of  love  than  brain  : 
God  send  me  love  my  debts  to  pay, 
While  unthrifts  fool  their  love  away. 

Nothing  could  have  my  love  o'erthrown, 

If  thou  hails)  still  continued  mine; 
Yea,  if  thou  hadst  remained  thy  own, 
I  mighl  perchance  have  ye\  been  thine. 
But  thou  thy  freedom  did  recall, 
Thai  if  thou  mighl  elsewhere  inthrall ; 
And  tlnii  how  could  I  but  disdain 
A  captive's  captive  to  remain  ? 


-ff 


172 


POEMS   OF  THE   AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


"When  new  desires  had  conquered  thee, 

And  changed  the  object  of  thy  will, 
It  had  been  lethargy  in  me, 

Not  constancy,  to  love  thee  still. 
Yea,  it  had  been  a  sin  to  go 
And  prostitute  affection  so, 
Since  we  are  taught  no  prayers  to  say 
To  such  as  must  to  others  pray. 

Yet  do  thou  glory  in  thy  choice, 

Thy  choice  of  his  good  fortune  boast  ; 
I  '11  neither  grieve  nor  yet  rejoice, 
To  see  him  gain  what  I  have  lost  ; 
The  height  of  my  disdain  shall  be, 
To  laugh  at  him,  to  blush  for  thee  ; 
To  love  thee  still,  but  go  no  more 
A  begging  to  a  beggar's  door. 

Sir  Robert  ayton. 


THE   ORIGIN   OF   THE   HARP. 

'T  is  believed  that  this  harp  which  I  wake  now 

for  thee 
"Was  a  siren  of  old  who  sung  under  the  sea  ; 
And  who  often  at  eve  through  the  bright  billow 

roved 
To  meet  on  the  green  shore  a  youth  whom  she  loved. 

But  she  loved  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep, 
And  in  tears  all  the  night  her  gold  ringlets  to 

steep, 
Till  Heaven  looked  with  pity  on  true  loveso  warm, 
And  changed  to  this  soft  harp  the  sea-maiden's 

form  ! 

Still  her  bosom  rose  fair  —  still  her  cheek  smiled 

the  same  — 
"While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  curled  round 

the  frame  ; 
And  her  hair,  shedding  tear-drops  from  all  its 

bright  rings, 
Fell  overherwhite  arm,  to  make  the  gold  strings  ! 

Hence  it  came  that  this  soft  harp  so  long  hath 

been  known 
To  mingle  love's  language  with  sorrow's  sad  tone  ; 
TiWthoudi&st  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay 
To  be  love  when  I  'mneartheeandgrief  when  away  ! 

THOMAS  MOORE  ["Irish  Melodies"). 


"WHERE  SHALL  THE  LOVER  REST? 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast 

Parted  forever  ? 


Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die 

Under  the  willow. 
Eleu  loro 

Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There,  through  the  summer  day 

Cool  streams  are  laving  : 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving  ; 
There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  forever, 
Never  again  to  wake 

Never,  0  never  ! 
Eleu  loro 

Never,  0  never  ! 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver, 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin,  and  leave  her  ? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying  ; 
Eleu  loro 

There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  false-hearted  ; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap 

Ere  life  be  parted  : 
Shame  and  dishonor  sit 

By  his  grave  ever  ; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it 

Never,  0  never  ! 

Eleu  loro 

Never,  0  never  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE   MOTHER'S   LAST   SONG. 

Sleep  !  —  The  ghostly  winds  are  blowing  ! 
No  moon  abroad,  no  star  is  glowing  ; 
The  river  is  dee]),  and  the  tide  is  flowing 
To  the  land  where  you  and  I  are  going  ! 

We  are  going  afar, 

Beyond  moon  or  star, 
To  the  land  where  the  sinless  angels  are  ! 

I  lost  my  heart  to  your  heartless  sire 
('T  was  melted  away  by  his  looks  of  fire), 
Forgot  my  God,  and  my  father's  ire, 
All  for  the  sake  of  a  man's  desire  ; 

But  now  we  '11  go 

Where  the  waters  flow, 
And  make  us  a  bed  where  none  shall  know. 


[B- 


# 


DISAPPOINTMENT   AND   ESTRANGEMENT. 


173      [ 


The  world  is  cruel,  the  world  is  untrue  ; 
Our  foes  are  many,  our  friends  are  few  ; 
No  work,  no  bread,  however  we  sue  ! 
What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do, 

But  fly,  —  fly 

From  the  cruel  sky, 

And  hide  in  the  deepest  deeps,  —  and  die  ? 

Barry  Cornwall. 


WALY,   WALY,   BUT    LOVE   BE   BONNY. 

0,  waly,  waly  up  the  hank, 
And  waly,  waly  down  the  brae, 

And  waly,  waly  yon  burn  side, 
Where  I  and  my  love  wont  to  gae. 

I  leaned  my  back  unto  an  aik, 
I  thought  it  was  a  trasty  tree  ; 

But  first  it  bowed,  and  syne  it  brak  — 
Sae  my  true  love  did  lightly  me  ! 

0,  waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonny, 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new ; 
But  when  't  is  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  away  like  the  morning  dew. 

0,  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  head  ? 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair  ? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he  '11  never  love  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-Seat  shall  be  my  bed  ; 

The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  fyled  by  me  ; 
Saint  Anton's  well  shall  be  my  drink, 

Since  my  true  love  has  forsaken  me. 

Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 
And  shake  the  green  leaves  off  the  tree  ? 

0  gentle  death,  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 
For  of  my  life  I  'in  weary. 

'T  is  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 
Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemency  ; 

'T  is  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 
But  my  love  \s  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 

When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town, 
We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see  ; 

My  love  was  dad  in  the  black  velvet, 
And  I  my  sell  in  cramasie. 

But  hail  I  wist,  before  I  kissed, 
That  love  had  been  sac  ill  to  win, 

1  'd  locked  inv  heart   in  a  case  of  gold, 

And  pinned  it  with  a  silver  pin. 

0,  0,  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 
And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 

And  I  my  sell  were  dead  and  gane, 
And  the  green  grass  growin'  over  me  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


LADY   ANN    BOTHWELL'S  LAMENT. 

A   SCOTTISH    SONG. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe  ; 
If  thou  'st  be  silent,  I  'se  be  glad, 
Thy  maining  maks  my  heart  ful  sad. 
Balow,  my  boy,  thy  mither's  joy  ! 
Thy  father  breides  me  great  annoy. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

When  he  began  to  court  my  luve, 
And  with  his  sugred  words  to  muve, 
His  faynings  fals,  and  flattering  cheire, 
To  me  that  time  did  not  appeire  : 
But  now  I  see,  most  cruell  hee, 
Cares  neither  for  my  babe  nor  mee. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Ly  stil,  my  darlinge,  sleipe  awhile, 
And  when  thou  wakest  sweitly  smile  : 
But  smile  not,  as  thy  father  did, 
To  cozen  maids  ;  nay,  God  forbid  ! 
But  yette  I  feire,  thou  wilt  gae  neire, 
Thy  fatheris  hart  and  face  to  beire. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  f 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  sec  tliee  weipe. 

I  cannae  chuse,  but  ever  will 
Be  hiving  to  thy  father  stil : 
Whair-eir  he  gae,  whair-eir  he  ryde, 
My  luve  with  him  maun  stil  abyde  : 
In  weil  or  wae,  whair-eir  he  gae, 
Mine  hart  can  neir  depart  him  frae. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  sec  tliec  iveipe. 

But  doe  not,  doe  not,  prettie  mine, 
To  faynings  fals  thine  hart  incline  ; 
Be  loyal  to  thy  luver  trew, 
And  nevir  change  fair  for  a  new  ; 
If  gude  or  faire,  of  hir  have  can', 
For  women's  banning's  wonderous  sair. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 

It  grieves  mc  sair  to  sec  thee  iccipc. 

Bairne,  sin  thy  cruel  father  is  gane, 

Thy  winsome  smiles  maun  eise  my  paine  ; 

My  babe  and  I  '11  together  live, 

He'll  comfort  mc  when  cares  doc  grieve  ; 

My  babe  and  1  right  salt  will  ly, 

And  quite  forget  man's  cruelty. 

Balow,  mi/  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  I 
It  grieves  mc  sair  to  sec  tliec  iccipc. 

Fareweil,  farcweil,  thou  falsest  youth 
That  ever  kist  a  woman's  mouth  ! 


fl~ 


-ff 


17 i 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


ft 


I  wish  all  maids  be  warned  by  mee, 
Nevir  to  trust  man's  curtesy  ; 
For  if  we  doe  but  chance  to  bow, 
They  '11  use  us  than  they  care  not  how. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  slcipe  ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

ANONYMOUS. 


MY  HEID   IS   LIKE  TO   REND,  WILLIE. 

My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break  ; 
I  'm  wearin'  aff  my  feet,  Willie, 

1  'm  dyin'  for  your  sake  ! 
0,  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane,  — 
0,  say  ye  '11  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  deid  and  gane  ! 

It 's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  grief  maun  ha'e  its  will ; 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 
And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair  ! 

I  'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life,  — 
A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 

A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart, 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair, 
Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  Strang  is  its  despair. 

0,  wae  's  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met,  — 
0,  wae  's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set ! 
0,  wae 's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae,  — 
And  wae 's  me  for  the  destinie 

That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae  ! 


0,  dinna  mind  my  words,  Willie, 

I  downa  seek  to  blame  ; 
But  0,  it 's  hard  to  live,  Willie, 

And  dree  a  warld's  shame  ! 
Het  tears  are  hailin'  ower  your  cheek, 

And  hailin'  ower  your  chin  : 
Why  weep  ye  sae  for  worthlessness, 

For  sorrow,  and  for  sin  ? 

I  'm  weary  o'  this  warld,  Willie, 

And  sick  wi'  a'  I  see, 
I  canna  live  as  I  ha'e  lived, 

Or  be  as  I  .should  be. 
But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine, 
And  kiss  ance  mair  the  white,  white  cheek 

Ye  said  was  red  langsyne. 

A  stoun'  gaes  through  my  heid,  Willie, 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart ; 
0,  haud  me  up  and  let  me  kiss 

Thy  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 
Anilher,  and  anither  yet  !  — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break  !  — 
Fareweel !  fareweel !  through  yon  kirk -yard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake  ! 

The  lav'rock  in  the  lift,  Willie, 

That  lilts  far  ower  our  heid, 
Will  sing  the  morn  as  merrilie 

Abune  the  clay-cauld  deid  ; 
And  this  green  turf  we  're  sittin'  on, 

Wi'  dew-draps  shimmerin'  sheen, 
Will  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 

As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

But  0,  remember  me,  Willie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be  ; 
And  0,  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart, 

That  ne'er  luvit  ane  but  thee  ! 
And  0,  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mools 

That  file  my  yellow  hair, 
That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin 

Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair  ! 

William  Motherwell. 


~ff 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


■a 


175 


BEREAVEMENT    AND    DEATH. 


RESIGNATION. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient  !     These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

"We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors  ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !  What  seems  so  is  transition  : 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

1 11  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking   that   our  remembrance,  though  un- 
spoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  nut  he  a  child  : 


But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though,  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 

Henry  wadsworth  Longfellow. 


BURIED   TO-DAY. 

February  23,  1858. 

Buried  to-day. 

When  the  soft  green  buds  are  bursting  out, 
And  up  on  the  south-wind  comes  a  shout 

Of  village  boys  and  girls  at  play 

In  the  mild  spring  evening  gray. 

Taken  away 

Sturdy  of  heart  and  stout  of  limb, 

From  eyes  that  drew  half  their  light  from  him, 

And  put  low,  low  underneath  the  clay, 

In  his  spring,  — on  this  spring  day. 

Passes  away, 

All  the  pride  of  boy-life  begun, 

All  the  hope  of  life  yet  to  run  ; 
Who  dares  to  question  when  One  saith  "Nay." 
Murmur  not,  —  only  pray. 

Enters  to-day 

Another  body  in  churchyard  sod, 
Another  soul  on  the  life  in  God. 

His  Christ  was  buried  —  and  lives  alway  : 

Trust  Him,  and  go  your  way. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock. 


UNVEIL  THY  BOSOM,  FAITHFUL  TOMB. 
Unveil  thy  bosom,  faithful  tomb  ; 

Take  this  new  treasure  to  thy  trust, 
Ami  give  these  sacred  relics  room 
To  slumber  in  the  silenl  dust. 


B~ 


B" 


176 


POEMS   OF  THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


Nor  pain,  nor  grief,  nor  anxious  fear, 
Invade  thy  bounds  ;  no  mortal  woes 

Can  reach  the  peaceful  sleeper  here, 
While  angels  watch  the  soft  repose. 

So  Jesus  slept ;  God's  dying  Son 

Passed  through  the  grave,  and  blest  the  bed 
Rest  here,  blest  saint,  till  from  his  throne 

The  morning  break,  and  pierce  the  shade. 

Break  from  his  throne,  illustrious  morn  ; 

Attend,  0  earth,  his  sovereign  word  ; 
Restore  thy  trust ;  a  glorious  form 

Shall  then  arise  to  meet  the  Lord. 

Dr.  Isaac  Watts. 


GRIEF  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

0  hearts  that  never  cease  to  yearn  ! 

0  brimming  tears  that  ne'er  are  dried  ! 
The  dead,  though  they  depart,  return 

As  though  they  had  not  died  ! 

The  living  are  the  only  dead  ; 

The  dead  live,  —  nevermore  to  die  ; 
And  often,  when  we  mourn  them  fled, 

They  never  were  so  nigh  ! 

And  though  they  lie  beneath  the  waves, 
Or  sleep  within  the  churchyard  dim, 

(Ah  !  through  how  many  different  graves 
God's  children  go  to  him  !)  — 

Yet  every  grave  gives  up  its  dead 
Ere  it  is  overgrown  with  grass  ; 

Then  why  should  hopeless  tears  be  shed, 
Or  need  we  cry,  "  Alas  "  ? 

Or  why  should  Memory,  veiled  with  gloom, 
And  like  a  sorrowing  mourner  craped, 

Sit  weeping  o'er  an  empty  tomb, 
Whose  captives  have  escaped  ? 

'T  is  but  a  mound,  —  and  will  be  mossed 
Whene'er  the  summer  grass  appears  ; 

The  loved,  though  wept,  are  never  lost  ; 
We  only  lose  —  our  tears  ! 

Nay,  Hope  may  whisper  with  the  dead 
By  bending  forward  where  they  are  ; 

But  Memory,  with  a  backward  tread, 
Communes  with  them  afar. 

The  joys  we  lose  are  but  forecast, 

And  we  shall  find  them  all  once  more  ; 

We  look  behind  us  for  the  Past, 
But  lo  !  't  is  all  before  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


LINES 

TO   THE    MEMORY    OF    "  ANNIE,"    WHO    DIED    AT    MILAN, 
JUNE  6,    1S60. 

"Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Woman,  why  weepest  thou?  whom  seek- 
est  thou  ?  She,  supposing  him  to  be  the  gardener,  saith  unto  him, 
Sir,  if  thou  have  borne  him  hence,  tell  me  where  thou  hast  laid 
him." — John  xx.  15. 

In  the  fair  gardens  of  celestial  peace 
AValketh  a  gardener  in  meekness  clad  ; 

Fair  are  the  flowers  that  wreathe  his  dewy  locks, 
And  his  mysterious  eyes  are  sweet  and  sad. 

Fair  are  the  silent  foldings  of  his  robes, 
Falling  with  saintly  calmness  to  his  feet  ; 

And  when  he  walks,  each  floweret  to  his  will 
With  living  pulse  of  sweet  accord  doth  beat. 

Every  green  leaf  thrills  to  its  tender  heart, 
In  the  mild  summer  radiance  of  his  eye  ; 

No  fear  of  storm,  or  cold,  or  bitter  frost, 

Shadows  the  flowerets  when  their  sun  is  nigh. 

And  all  our  pleasant  haunts  of  earthly  love 
Are  nurseries  to  those  gardens  of  the  air  ; 

And  his  far-darting  eye,  with  starry  beam, 
Watching  the  growing  of  his  treasures  there. 

We  call  them  ours,  o'erwept  with  selfish  tears, 
O'erwatched  with  restless  longings  night  and 
day; 

Forgetful  of  the  high,  mysterious  right 

He  holds  to  bear  our  cherished  plants  away. 

But  when  some  sunny  spot  in  those  bright  fields 
Needs  the  fair  presence  of  an  added  flower, 

Down  sweeps  a  starry  angel  in  the  night  : 

At  morn  the  rose  has  vanished  from  our  bower. 

Where  stood  our  tree,  our  flower,  there  is  a  grave  ! 

Blank,  silent,  vacant  ;  but  in  worlds  above, 
Like  a  new  star  outblossomed  in  the  skies, 

The  angels  hail  an  added  flower  of  love. 

Dear  friend,  no  more  upon  that  lonely  mound, 
Strewed  with  the  red  and  yellow  autumn  leaf, 

Drop  thou  the  tear,  but  raise  the  fainting^eye 
Beyond  the  autumn  mists  of  earthly  grief. 

Thy  garden  rosebud  bore  within  its  breast 
Those  mysteries  of  color,  warm  and  bright, 

That  the  bleak  climate  of  this  lower  sphere 
Could  never  waken  into  form  and  light. 

Yes,  the  sweet  Gardener  hath  borne  her  hence, 
Nor  must  thou  ask  to  take  her  thence  away  ; 

Thou  shalt  behold  her,  in  some  coming  hour, 
Full  blossomed  in  his  fields  of  cloudless  day. 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 


-ff 


a 


BEREAVEMENT  AND   DEATH. 


177 


■a 


CALM   ON   THE   BOSOM   OF   THY   GOD. 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 
Young  spirit  !  rest  thee  now. 

Even  while  with  us  thy  footstep  trod, 
His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust,  to  its  narrow  house  beneath ! 

Soul,  to  its  place  on  high  !  — 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 

Lone  are  the  paths,  and  sad  the  bowers, 
Whence  thy  meek  smile  is  gone  ; 

But  0,  a  brighter  home  than  ours 
In  heaven  is  now  thine  own  ! 

FELICIA  Hemans. 


Two  lips  still  breathing  love, 

Not  wrath,  nor  fears  "  : 

So  pray  we  afterwards,  low  on  our  knees  ; 

Pardon  those  erring  prayers  !    Father,  hear  these  ! 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock. 


LIFE  !   I  KNOW  NOT  WHAT  THOU  ART. 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me 's  a  secret  yet. 

Life  !  we  've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather, 
'T  is  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear,  — 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear  ; 
—  Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time  ; 
Say  not  Good  Night,  —  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good  Morning. 

A.   L.   BARBAULD. 


5- 


NOW   AND    AFTERWARDS. 

"Two  hands  upon  the  breast,  and  labor  is  past." 

RUSSIAN  PROVERB. 

"Two  hands  upon  the  breast, 

And  labor  's  done  ; 
Two  pale  feet  crossed  in  rest,  — 

The  race  is  won  ; 
Two  eyes  with  coin-weights  shut, 

And  all  tears  cease  ; 
Two  lips  where  grief  is  mute, 

Anger  at  peace  "  : 
So  pray  we  oftentimes,  mourning  our  lot  ; 
God  in  his  kindness  answereth  not. 

"Two  hands  to  work  addrest 

Aye  for  his  praise  ; 
Two  feet  that  never  rest 

Walking  his  ways  ; 
Two  eyes  that  look  above 

Through  all  their  tears  ; 
12 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  ANGELS. 

When  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  night 
Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumbered 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight,  — 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door,  — 
The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  : 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 

Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 
By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 

Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  being  beauteous 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine  ; 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,   in  blessings  ended, 

Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

0,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely. 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside 

If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  ! 

.  i  ik  i  h  Longfellow 


-ff 


178 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


MY   MOTHER'S   BIBLE. 

This  book  is  all  that 's  left  me  now,  — 

Tears  will  unbidden  start,  — 
With  faltering  lip  and  throbbing  brow 

I  press  it  to  my  heart. 
For  many  generations  past 

Here  is  our  family  tree  ; 
My  mother's  hands  this  Bible  clasped, 

She,  dying,  gave  it  me. 

Ah  !  well  do  I  remember  those 

Whose  names  these  records  bear  ; 
Who  round  the  hearthstone  used  to  close, 

After  the  evening  prayer, 
And  speak  of  what  these  pages  said 

In  tones  my  heart  would  thrill  ! 
Though  they  are  with  the  silent  dead, 

Here  are  they  living  still  ! 

My  father  read  this  holy  book 

To  brothers,  sisters,  dear  ; 
How  calm  was  my  poor  mother's  look, 

Who  loved  God's  word  to  hear ! 
Her  angel  face,  —  I  see  it  yet ! 

What  thronging  memories  come  ! 
Again  that  little  group  is  met 

Within  the  halls  of  home  ! 

Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew, 

Thy  constancy  I  've  tried  ; 
When  all  were  false,  I  found  thee  true, 

My  counsellor  and  guide. 
The  mines  of  earth  no  treasures  give 

That  could  this  volume  buy  ; 
In  teaching  me  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die  ! 

GEORGE  P.   MORRIS. 


GOD'S-ACRE. 

I  like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God's-Acre  !     It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls, 

And  breathes  a  benison  o'er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God's-Acre  !     Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas  !  no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast, 

In  the  sure  faith  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  archangel's  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a  fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 

Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 
In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom  mingle  its  perfume 
With  that  of  flowers  which  never  bloomed  on 
earth. 


With  thy  rude  ploughshare,  Death,  turn  up  the 

sod, 

And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow  ; 

This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place  where  human  harvests  grow  ! 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


FOR   CHARLIE'S   SAKE. 

The  night  is  late,  the  house  is  still ; 

The  angels  of  the  hour  fulfil 

Their  tender  ministries,  and  move 

From  couch  to  couch  in  cares  of  love. 

They  drop  into  thy  dreams,  sweet  wife, 

The  happiest  smile  of  Charlie's  life, 

And  lay  on  baby's  lips  a.  kiss, 

Fresh  from  his  angel-brother's  bliss  ; 

And,  as  they  pass,  they  seem  to  make 

A  strange,  dim  hymn,  "  For  Charlie's  sake." 

My  listening  heart  takes  up  the  strain, 
And  gives  it  to  the  night  again, 
Fitted  with  words  of  lowly  praise. 
And  patience  learned  of  mournful  days, 
And  memories  of  the  dead  child's  ways. 

His  will  be  done,  His  will  be  done  ! 
Who  gave  and  took  away  my  son, 
In  "  the  far  land"  to  shine  and  sing 
Before  the  Beautiful,  the  King, 
Who  every  day  doth  Christmas  make, 
All  starred  and  belled  for  Charlie's  sake. 

For  Charlie's  sake  I  will  arise  ; 

I  will  anoint  me  where  he  lies, 

And  change  my  raiment,  and  go  in 

To  the  Lord's  house,  and  leave  my  sin 

Without,  and  seat  me  at  his  board, 

Eat,  and  be  glad,  and  praise  the  Lord. 

For  wherefore  should  I  fast  and  weep, 

And  sullen  moods  of  mourning  keep  ? 

I  cannot  bring  him  back,  nor  he, 

For  any  calling,  come  to  me. 

The  bond  the  angel  Death  did  sign, 

God  sealed — for  Charlie's  sake,  and  mine. 

John  Williamson  Palmer. 


UNDER   THE   CROSS. 

I  cannot,  cannot  say, 
Out  of  my  braised  and  breaking  heart, 
Storm-driven  along  a  thorn-set  way, 

While  blood-drops  start 
From  every  pore,  as  I  drag  on, 

"  Thy  will,  0  God,  be  done  !  " 


[&- 


& 


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BEREAVEMENT  AND   DEATH. 


179 


I  thought,  hut  yesterday, 
My  will  was  one  with  God's  dear  will  ; 
Aud  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  say, 

Whatever  ill 
My  happy  state  should  smite  upon, 

"Thy  will,  my  God,  be  done  !  " 

But  I  was  weak  and  wrong, 
Both  weak  of  soul  and  wrong  of  heart ; 
And  Pride  alone  in  me  was  strong. 

With  cunning  art 
To  cheat  me  in  the  golden  sun. 

To  say,  "  God's  will  be  done  !  " 

0  shadow  drear  and  cold, 
That  frights  me  out  of  foolish  pride  ; 

0  flood,  that  through  my  bosom  rolled 

Its  billowy  tide  ; 

1  said,  till  ye  your  power  made  known, 

"  God's  will,  not  mine,  be  done  !  " 

Now,  faint  and  sore  afraid, 
Under  my  cross,  heavy  and  rude, 
My  idols  in  the  ashes  laid, 

Like  ashes  strewed, 
The  holy  words  my  pale  lips  shun, 

"0  God,  thy  will  be  done  !  " 

Pity  my  woes,  0  God, 
And  touch  my  will  with  thy  warm  breath  ; 
Put  in  my  trembling  hand  thy  rod, 

That  quickens  death  ; 
That  my  dead  faith  may  feel  thy  sun, 

And  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

W.  C.  R. 


SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER  BREATH. 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath, 

Gentle  death  ! 
Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 

Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  life  ! 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day, 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom  ; 
Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away, 

Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom  ! 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear  ! 
Bear  her  perfect  snul  above, 

Seraph  of  the  skies,  —  sweet  love  ! 
Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth  ; 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth  ; 

Take  her,  then,  forevennore,  — 

Forever      evermore ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


THE   ANGEL   OF   PATIENCE. 

A    FREE    PARAPHRASE   OF    THE   GERMAN. 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angel  gently  comes  : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love  our  dear 
And  heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There  's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 

There  's  rest  in  his  still  countenance  ! 

He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 

Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's  ear  ; 

But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 

He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience  !  sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm  ; 
To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear  ; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will ! 

0  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  "  Be  resigned  : 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well  !  " 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


OVER  THE   RIVER. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, 

Loved  ones  who  've  crossed  to  the  farther  side, 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  lost  in  the  dashing  tide. 
There  's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue  ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view. 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there, 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see  : 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet  ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale, 

Darling  .Minnie  I   1  see  her  yet. 
She  ero  sed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark; 
We  felt  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark  ; 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side, 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be  : 


-ff 


ISO 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale  ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail ; 
Audio !  theyhavepassedfromouryearninghearts, 

They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye. 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day  ; 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea  ; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore, 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar  ; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail, 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand, 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land. 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  angel  of  death  shall  carry  me. 

Nancy  Amelia  Woodbury  Priest. 


THOU  ART  GONE  TO  THE  GRAVE. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave,  —  we  no  longer  de- 
plore thee, 
Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass  the 
tomb  ; 
The  Saviour  has  passed  through  its  portals  before 
thee, 
And  the  lamp  of  his  love  is  thy  guide  through 
the  gloom. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave,  —  we  no  longer  behold 
thee, 
Nor  tread  the  rough  path  of  the  world  by  thy 
side  ; 
But  the  wide  arms  of  mercy  are  spread  to  enfold 
thee, 
And  sinners  may  hope,  since  the  Sinless  has 
died. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave,  — and,  its  mansion 
forsaking, 
Perhaps  thy  tried   spirit  in   doubt   lingered 
long, 
But  the  sunshine  of  heaven  beamed  bright  on 
thy  waking, 
And   the   song  which  thou  heard' st  was  the 
seraphim's  song. 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave,  —  but  't  were  wrong 
to  deplore  thee, 
When  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian,  thy 
guide  ; 
He  gave  thee,  and  took  thee,  and  soon  will  re- 
store thee, 
Where  death  hath  no  sting,  since  the  Saviour 
hath  died.  Reginald  Heber. 


THE   PLEASURES   OF   HEAVEN. 

There  all  the  happy  souls  that  ever  were, 

Shall  meet  with  gladness  in  one  theatre  ; 

And  each  shall  know  there  one  another's  face, 

By  beatific  virtue  of  the  place. 

There  shall  the  brother  with  the  sister  walk, 

And  sons  and  daughters  with  their  parents  talk ; 

But  all  of  God  :  they  still  shall  have  to  say, 

But  make  him  all  in  all  their  theme  that  day  : 

That  happy  day  that  never  shall  see  night ! 

Where  he  will  be  all  beauty  to  the  sight ; 

Wine  or  delicious  fruits  unto  the  taste  ; 

A  music  in  the  ears  will  ever  last ; 

Unto  the  scent,  a  spicery  or  balm  ; 

And  to  the  touch,  a  flower,  like  soft  as  palm. 

He  will  all  glory,  all  perfection,  be, 

God  in  the  Union  and  the  Trinity  ! 

That  holy,  great,  and  glorious  mystery 

Will  there  revealed  be  in  majesty, 

By  light  and  comfort  of  spiritual  grace  ; 

The  vision  of  our  Saviour  face  to  face, 

In  his  humanity  !  to  hear  him  preach 

The  price  of  our  redemption,  and  to  teach, 

Through  his  inherent  righteousness  in  death, 

The  safety  of  our  souls  and  forfeit  breath  ! 

What  fulness  of  beatitude  is  here  ! 

WThat  love  with  mercy  mixed  doth  appear  ! 

To  style  us  friends,  who  w-ere  by  nature  foes  ! 

Adopt  us  heirs  by  grace,  who  were  of  those 

Had  lost  ourselves  ;  and  prodigally  spent 

Our  native  portions  and  possessed  rent ! 

Yet  have  all  debts  forgiven  us  ;  an  advance 

By  imputed  right  to  an  inheritance 

In  his  eternal  kingdom,  where  we  sit 

Ecpial  with  angels,  and  co-heirs  of  it. 

Ben  Jonson. 


I   WOULD   NOT   LIVE   ALWAY. 

I  would  not  live  alway  ;  I  ask  not  to  stay 
Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o'er  the  way  ; 
The  few  lurid  mornings  that  dawn  on  us  here 
Are  enough  for  life's  joys,  full  enough  for  its  cheer. 

I  would  not  live  alway ;  no,  —  welcome  the  tomb ! 
Since  Jesus  hath  lain  there,  I  dread  not  its  gloom  : 
There  sweet  be  my  rest  till  he  bid  me  arise, 
To  hail  him  in  triumph  descending  the  skies. 


iQ-^ 


.□ 


F 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


181 


Who,  who  would  live  alway,  away  from  his  God,  — 
Away  from  yon  heaven,  that  blissful  abode, 
"Where  rivers  of  pleasure  flow  bright  o'er  the  plains, 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns  ? 

There  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony  meet, 
Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported  to  greet ; 
While  anthems  of  rapture  unceasingly  roll, 
And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of  the  soul. 

Wh.  a.  Muhlenberg. 


BEYOND      THE     SMILING      AND      THE 
WEEPING. 

Beyoxd  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading, 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  1 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting, 
Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strowing 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing, 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  lwmc  I 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  pulse's  fever  beating,' 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  lwmc  1 

Beyond  the  frost  chain  and  the  fever 

I  shall  be  .soon  ; 
Beyond  the  rock  waste  and  the  river, 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  I 
Sweet  fiopc  1 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

HORATIUS  BONAR. 


THE   LAND   0'   THE   LEAL. 

I  'm  wearing  awa',  Jean, 

Like  snaw  when  its  thaw,  Jean, 

I  'm  wearing  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There  's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There  's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Ye  were  aye  leal  and  true,  Jean  ; 
Your  task  's  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I  '11  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Our  bonnie  bairn  's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  guid  and  fair,  Jean, 
0,  we  grudged  her  right  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal  ! 

Then  dry  that  tearfu'  e'e,  Jean, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 
And  angels  wait  on  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal ! 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 
This  warld's  care  is  vain,  Jean  ; 
We  '11  meet  and  aye  be  fain 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

LADY  NAIRN. 


UNDER   THE   VIOLETS. 

Her  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go  ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light  ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes  ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round, 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the  ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaveson  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 

And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 
And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 

Doubt   not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  spring, 


tf 


182 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
iShall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  tind  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  'fchey  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise  ! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 

Say  only  this  :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 

Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


SELECTIONS   FROM    "IN   MEMOPJAM." 

GRIEF   UNSPEAKABLE. 

I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel : 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I  '11  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

DEAD,     IX    A    FOREIGN    LAND. 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirrored  mast,  and  lead 

Through  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  through  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 


My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widowed  race  be  run ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

THE    PEACE    OF    SORROW. 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 
And  only  through  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair  : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

time  and  eternity. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 
And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 
Through  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on  ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 
Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 

Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower  : 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man  ; 

So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 

In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 
The  total  world  since  life  began  ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

FERSONAL    RESURRECTION. 

That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 


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BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


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183 


Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside  ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 
Enjoying  each  the  other's  good  : 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?     He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place  to  clasp  and  say, 

"  Farewell  !     We  lose  ourselves  in  light." 

SPIIUTUAL    COMPANIONSHIP. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  he  near  us  at  our  side  ? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide  ? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame, 

And  I  be  lessened  in  his  love  ? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death  : 

The  dead  shall  look  me  through  and  through. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall  : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 

MOONLIGHT   MUSINGS. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest, 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls  ; 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 

As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 

Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 
And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away  ; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies: 
Ami,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 

I  sleep  till  du.sk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 

Ami  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  vi'il  from  coasl  to  coast, 
Ami  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

DEATH    IN'   LIFE'S    PRIME. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  Buch  tilings  to  be, 

How  know  I   what   had  1 1  of  thee, 

For  thou  werl  strong  as  thou  wert  true? 


The  fame  is  quenched  that  I  foresaw, 

The  head  hath  missed  an  earthly  wreath  : 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death  ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass  ;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds  : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age  ?     It  rests  with  God. 

0  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults, 
And  self-enfolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 

THE    POET'S   TRIBUTE. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshortened  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks  : 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find, 

And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that  tells 
A  grief,  then  changed  to  something  else, 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ?     My  darkened  ways 

Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same  ; 

To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THEY   ARE   ALL   GONE. 

THEY  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear  ; 

It  slows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove,  — 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

1  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days,  — 
My  days  which  are  at  best  hut  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

0  holy  hope  !  and  high  humility,  — 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them 
me 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 


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POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


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Dear,  beauteous  death,  —  the  jewel  of  the  just,  — 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Coidd  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may 
know, 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted 
themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there, 
But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gives  room, 
She  '11  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

0  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  thee  ! 
Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass  ; 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 

Henry  Vaughan. 


THE  FIRST   SNOW-FALL. 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 
Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow, 

The  stiff  rails  were  softened  to  swan's-down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 

The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 
And  tin-  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 

Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood  ; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 


Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  "  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ?" 
And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 

Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall, 

And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 
That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 

When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 

' '  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father 

Alone  can  make  it  fall !  " 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  her ; 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 

That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE   REAPER   AND   THE   FLOWERS. 

There  is  a  Reaper  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  naught  that  is  fair  ? "  saith  he  ; 

"Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 
He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves  ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay, 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
"Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

"They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love  ; 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  field*  of  light  above. 


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BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


185 


a 


0,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  Reaper  came  that  day  ; 
'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 

HENRY  WADSWOKTH   LONGFELLOW. 


"ONLY   A   YEAR." 

One  year  ago,  —  a  ringing  voice, 

A  clear  blue  eye, 
And  clustering  curls  of  sunny  hair, 

Too  fair  to  die. 

Only  a  year,  —  no  voice,  no  smile, 

No  glance  of  eye, 
No  clustering  curls  of  golden  hair, 

Fair  but  to  die  ! 

One  year  ago,  —  what  loves,  what  schemes 

Far  into  life  ! 
"What  joyous  hopes,  what  high  resolves, 

What  generous  strife  ! 

The  silent  picture  on  the  wall, 

The  burial-stone, 
Of  all  that  beauty,  life,  and  joy 

Remain  alone  ! 

One  year,  —  one  year,  —  one  little  year, 

And  so  much  gone  ! 
And  yet  the  even  flow  of  life 

Moves  calmly  on. 

The  grave  grows  green,  the  flowers  bloom  fair, 

Above  that  head  ; 
No  sorrowing  tint  of  leaf  or  spray 

Says  he  is  dead. 

No  pause  or  hush  of  merry  birds, 

That  sing  above, 
Tells  us  how  coldly  sleeps  below 
'  Tlie  form  we  love. 

Where  hast  thou  been  this  year,  beloved  ? 

What  hast  thou  seen,  — 
What  visions  fair,  what  glorious  life? 

Where  thou  hast  been  ? 

The  vil  I   tin'  veil  !  so  thin,  so  strong  ! 

'Twixt  us  and  thee  ; 
The  mystic  veil  !   when  shall  it  fall, 

That  we  may  see  ? 

Not  dead,  not  Bleeping,  not  even  gone, 

Bui  present  still, 
And  wait  Jul;  for  the  coming  hour 

Of  God's  sw  ret  will. 


Lord  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Our  Saviour  dear  ! 

We  lay  in  silence  at  thy  feet 

This  sad,  sad  year. 

Harriet  Beecher.  Stowe. 


MY   CHILD. 

I  cannot  make  him  dead  ! 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair  ; 

Yet  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears,  I  turn  to  him, 
The  vision  vanishes,  — he  is  not  there  ! 

I  walk  my  parlor  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  door, 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair  ; 

I  'm  stepping  toward  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that  —  he  is  not  there  ! 

I  thread  the  crowded  street  ; 

A  satchelled  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair  ; 

And,  as  he  's  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that  —  he  is  not  there  ! 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin  lid  ; 
Closed  are  his  eyes  ;  cold  is  his  forehead  fair  ; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt ; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that  —  he  is  not  there  ! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead  ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watched  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  him  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that  —  he  is  not  there 

When,  at  the  cool  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  lirst  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

IWy  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy  ; 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there  ! 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I  'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer  ; 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am  in  spirit  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though  — he  is  not  there  1 


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POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


Not  there  !  —  Where,  then,  is  he  ? 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  hut  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 

I" [ion  that  cast-off  dress, 
Is  hut  his  wardrobe  locked  ;  — he  is  not  there  ! 

He  lives  !  —  In  all  the  past 

He  lives  ;  nor,  to  the  last, 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair  ; 

1  n  dreams  I  see  him  now  ; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  see  it  written,  ' '  Thou  shalt  see  me  there  ! 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God  ! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit  land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'T  will  be  our  heaven  to  find  that  —  he  is  there  ! 

JOHN  PlERPONT. 


SWEET   DAY. 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridall  of  the  earth  and  skie  : 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angrie  and  brave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  dayes  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  musick  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Onely  a  sweet  and  vertuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives  ; 

But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 

Then  chiefly  lives. 

George  Herbert. 


MAN'S   MORTALITY. 

Ltke  as  the  damask  rose  you  see, 
Or  like  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
Or  like  the  dainty  flower  in  May, 
Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day, 
Or  like  the  sun,  or  like  the  shade, 
Or  like  the  gourd  which  Jonas  had,  — 
E'en  such  is  man  ; — whose  thread  is  spun, 
Drawn  out,  and  cut,  and  so  is  done.  — 
The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  blasteth, 
The  flower  fades,  the  morning  hasteth, 


The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flies, 

The  gourd  consumes,  —  and  man  he  dies  ! 

Like  to  the  grass  that 's  newly  sprung, 

Or  like  a  tale  that 's  new  begun, 

Or  like  the  bird  that 's  here  to-day, 

Or  like  the  pearled  dew  of  May, 

Or  like  an  hour,  or  like  a  span, 

Or  like  the  singing  of  a  swan,  — 

E'en  such  is  man  ;  —  who  lives  by  breath, 

Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death.  — 

The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended, 

The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew  's  ascended. 

The  hour  is  short,  the  span  is  long, 

The  swan  's  near  death,  —  man's  life  is  done  ! 

Simon  Wastell. 


IF  THOU  WILT   EASE  THINE  HEART. 


If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 
Of  love,  and  all  its  smart,  — 
Then  sleep,  dear,  sleep  ! 
And  not  a  sorrow 

Hang  any  tear  on  your  eyelashes  ; 

Lie  still  and  deep, 
Sad  soul,  until  the  sea-wave  washes 
The  rim  o'  the  sun  to-morrow, 
In  eastern  sky. 

But  wilt  thou  cure  thine  heart 
Of  love,  and  all  its  smart,  — 

Then  die,  dear,  die  ! 
'T  is  deeper,  sweeter, 

Than  on  a  rose  bank  to  lie  dreaming 

With  folded  eye  ; 
And  then  alone,  amid  the  beaming 
Of  love's  stars,  thou  'It  meet  her 
In  eastern  sky. 

THOMAS  L0VELL  BEDDOES. 


DEATH. 


THE   GIAOUR. 


He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 
And  marked  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose,  that 's  there, 
The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 
And  —  but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 


CP-- 


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BEREAVEMENT  AND   DEATH. 


a 


187 


That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 
"Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy 
Appalls  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon  ; 
Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone, 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  revealed  ! 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore  ; 
'T  is  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more  ! 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 
We  start,  for  soirl  is  wanting  there. 
Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 
That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ; 
But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 
That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  past  away  ; 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherished 
earth  !  BYRON. 


B- 


DEATH'S   FINAL   CONQUEST. 

fThese  verses  are  said  to  have  "  chilled  the  heart  "  of  Oliver 
Cromwell.] 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate,  — 
Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings  ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield,  — 
They  tame  but  one  another  still ; 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow,  — 

Then  boas1  no  more  your  mighty  deeds; 
Upon  death's  purple  altar,  now, 
See  where  the  victor  victim  bleeds  I 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb,  — 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 

Jambs  Shirley. 


LIFE. 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood,  — 
■E'en  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in,  and  paid  to-night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies, 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies, 
The  dew  dries  up,  the  star  is  shot, 
The  flight  is  past,  —  and  man  forgot  ! 

Henry  King. 


THE   GRAVE. 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found, 
They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 

Low  in  the  ground. 

The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  sky 
No  more  disturbs  their  deep  rejiose, 
Than  summer-evening's  latest  sigh 

That  shuts  the  rose. 

I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 
And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil, 
To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 

From  all  my  toil. 

For  Misery  stole  me  at  my  birth, 
And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild  : 
I  perish  ;  —  0  my  Mother  Earth, 

Take  home  thy  Child  ! 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined, 
Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee  ; 
Nor  leave  one  wretched  trace  behind 
Resembling  me. 

Hark  !  a  strange  sound  affrights  mine  ear, 
My  pulse,  —  my  brain  runs  wild,  —  I  rave  ; 
—  Ah  !  who  art  thou  whose  voice  1  hear? 
—  "I  am  t he  C< rave  ! 

"The  Grave,  that  never  spake  before, 
Hath  found  at  length  a  tongue  to  chide  : 
0  listen  !  "   "I  will  speak  no  more  :- 
Be  silent,  Pride  !  " 

"Art  thou  a  Wretch  of  hope  forlorn, 
The  victim  of  consuming  care  ' 
Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 

By  fell  despair  ? 


-ff 


a- 


188 


POEMS   OF  THE   AFFECTIONS. 


a 


"A  bruised  reed  he  will  not  break  ; 
Afflictions  all  his  children  feel  ; 
He  wounds  them  for  his  mercy's  sake, 
He  wounds  to  heal. 

"There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  Pilgrims  found  ; 
And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground, 

"The  Soul,  of  origin  divine, 
God's  glorious  image,  freed  from  clay, 
In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine, 
A  star  of  day. 

"  The  Sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 
A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky  ; 
The  Soul,  immortal  as  its  Sire, 

Shall  never  die." 

James  Montgomery. 


WE   WATCHED   HER   BREATHING. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied,  — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed,  —  she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 

Thomas  Hood. 


A  DEATH-BED. 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day  ; 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away 

In  statuedike  repose. 

But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  passed  through  glory's  morning-gate, 

And  walked  in  Paradise  ! 

James  Aldrich. 


0,   SNATCHED    AWAY   IN    BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM  ! 

0,  snatched  away  in  beauty's  bloom  ! 

On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb  ; 

But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 

Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom  : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 

Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 

And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread  ; 

Fond  wretch  !  as  if  her  step  disturbed  the  dead  I 

Away  !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  Death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress  : 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  ? 
And  thou,  who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 
Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 

BYRON. 


TO  MARY   IN   HEAVEN. 

[Composed  by  Burns,  in  September,  1789,  on  the  anniversary  of 
the  day  on  which  he  heard  of  the  death  of  his  early  love,  Mary 
Campbell.] 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
0  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget,  — 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ! 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ; 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green ; 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene  ; 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray,  — 
Till  soon,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 

Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 


<& 


-ff 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


-ft 


189 


My  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groaus  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

Robert  Burns. 


FOR   ANNIE. 

Thank  Heaven  !  the  crisis,  — 

The  danger  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last,  — 
And  the  fever  called  ' '  Living  " 

Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly,  I  know, 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length  — 
But  no  matter  !  —  I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composedly 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead,  — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 
The  sighing  and  sobbing, 

Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 

At  heart,  —  ah,  that  horrible, 
Horrible  throbbing ! 

The  sickness,  the  nausea, 

The  pitiless  pain, 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain,  — 
With  the  fever  railed  "Living" 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  0,  of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated,  — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  napthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst  ! 
I  have  drunk  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst,  — 

Of  a  water  thai  Hows 

With  a  lullaby  sound, 
Prom  a  spring  but  a  very  few 

Feet  under  ground,  — 
From  a  cavern  not  very  Ear 

1  >own  under  ground. 


And  ah  !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed  ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed,  — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 

Here  blandly  reposes, 
Forgetting,  or  never 

Regretting,  its  roses,  — 
Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses  : 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odor 

About  it,  of  pansies,  — 
A  rosemary  odor, 

Commingled  with  pansies, 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie,  — 
Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast,  — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguished, 

She  covered  me  warm. 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm,  — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly 

Now  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love,) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead  ; 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly 

Now  in  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast,) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead,  — 
Th;it  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead  : 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  .'ill  of  the  many 
Si -n  -  in  the  sky  ; 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie,  — 


-& 


& 


190 


ft 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie, 

With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


THE  FAIREST  THING  IN  MORTAL  EYES. 

[Addressed  to  his  deceased  wife,  who  died  in  childbed  at  the  age 
of  twenty-two.] 

To  make  my  lady's  obsequies 

My  love  a  minster  wrought, 
And,  in  the  chantry,  service  there 

Was  sung  by  doleful  thought ; 
The  tapers  were  of  burning  sighs, 

That  light  and  odor  gave  ; 
And  sorrows,  painted  o'er  with  tears, 

Enlumined  her  grave  ; 
And  round  about,  in  quaintest  guise, 
Was  carved  :    "  Within  this  tomb  there  lies 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes." 

Above  her  lieth  spread  a  tomb 

Of  gold  and  sapphires  blue  : 
The  gold  doth  show  her  blessedness, 

The  sapphires  mark  her  true  ; 
For  blessedness  and  truth  in  her . 

Were  livelily  portrayed, 
When  gracious  God  with  both  his  hands 

Her  goodly  substance  made. 
He  framed  her  in  such  wondrous  wise, 
She  was,  to  speak  without  disguise, 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

No  more,  no  more  !  my  heart  doth  faint 

When  I  the  life  recall 
Of  her  who  lived  so  free  from  taint, 

So  virtuous  deemed  by  all,  — 
That  in  herself  was  so  complete 

I  think  that  she  was  ta'en 
By  God  to  deck  his  paradise, 

And  with  his  saints  to  reign  ; 
Whom  while  on  earth  each  one  did  prize, 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

But  naught  our  tears  avail,  or  cries  ; 

All  soon  or  late  in  death  shall  sleep  ; 

Nor  living  wight  long  time  may  keep 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

Charlks,  Duke  of  Orleans  (French).    Trans- 
lation of  Henry  Francis  Carv. 


Yes,  they  're  ever  bending  o'er  her 

Eyes  that  weep  ; 
Forms,  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her, 

Vigils  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  shining 

Soft  and  fair, 
Friends  she  loved  in  tears  are  twining 

Chaplets  there. 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit, 

Throned  above,  — 

Souls  like  thine  with  God  inherit 

Life  and  love  ! 

James  T.  Fields. 


FEAR  NO  MORE  THE  HEAT  0'  THE  SUN. 

FROM    "CYMBEL1NE." 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious-winter's  rages  ; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages  : 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning  flash 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan  : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must, 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

Shakespeare. 


DIRGE   FOR  A   YOUNG   GIRL. 

Underneath  the  sod  low-lying, 

Dark  and  drear, 
Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  dying, 

Sorrow  here. 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  0  Time,   in  your 

flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night ! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore  ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair  ; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep  ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  0  tide  of  the  years  ! 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears,  — 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain,  — 
Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  ! 


■ff 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


191 


ft 


I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  deca}%  — 
Weary  of  Hinging  my  soul-wealth  away  ; 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap  ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  hase,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  0  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you  ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed,  and  faded  our  faces  between, 
Yet  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep  ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — -  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone  ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures,  — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours : 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,   just  lighted  with 

gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old  ; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light ; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore  ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep  ;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  —  rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Mother,    dear    mother,    the    years    have    been 

long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song  : 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep;  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Florence  percv. 


CASA    WAPPY. 

Till',  child's  pet  name,  chosen  by  himself. 

A  mi  hast  thou  Bought  thy  heavenly  home, 

< 'ui-  fond,  dear  boy,  — 
The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 

Where  life  is  joy  ? 
Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth  ; 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  dearth, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 


Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell, 

As  closed  thine  eye  ; 
Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 

When  thou  didst  die  ; 
Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee  ; 
Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathomed  agony  ; 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Thou  wert  a  vision  of  delight, 

To  bless  us  given  ; 
Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight, 

A  type  of  heaven  ! 
So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self,  than  a  part 
Of  mine,  and  of  thy  mother's  heart, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Thy  bright,  brief  day  knew  no  decline, 

'T  was  cloudless  joy  ; 
Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine, 

Beloved  boy  ! 
This  moon  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay  ; 
That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay  ; 
And  ere  a  third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride, 

Earth's  undefiled, 
Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died, 

Our  dear,  sweet  child  ! 
Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate's  decree  ; 
Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 
Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 


when  blind,  blank  night 


We  mourn  for  thee 

The  chamber  fills  ; 
We  pine  for  thee  when  morn's  first  light 

Reddens  the  hills  : 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 
All — to  the  wallflower  and  wild  pea  — 
Are  changed  ;  we  saw  the  world  through  thee, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

And  though,  perehnnee,  a  smile  may  gleam 

Of  casual  mirth, 
It  doth  not  own,  whate'er  may  seem, 

An  inward  birth  ; 
We  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair  ; 
We  miss  thee  at  thine  evening  prayer  ; 
All  day  we  miss  thee,   -everywhere, — 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 

In  life's  spring-hloom, 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below,  — 

The  silent  tomb. 


*&- 


■ff 


192 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


"ft 


But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 
The  cuckoo,  and  "  the  busy  bee," 
Return,  —  but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

'T  is  so  ;  but  can  it  be  —  while  flowers 

Revive  again  — 
Man's  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 

For  aye  remain  ? 
0,  can  it  be,  that  o'er  the  grave 
The  grass  renewed  should  yearly  wavs, 
Yet  God  forget  our  child  to  save  ?  — 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

It  cannot  be  ;  for  were  it  so 

Thus  man  could  die, 
Life  were  a  mockery,  thought  were  woe, 

And  truth  a  lie  ; 
Heaven  were  a  coinage  of  the  brain  ; 
Religion  frenzy,  virtue  vain, 
And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Then  be  to  us,  0  dear,  lost  child  ! 

With  beam  of  love, 
A  star,  death's  uncongenial  wild 

Smiling  above  ! 
Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph's  road, 
That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Yet 't  is  sweet  balm  to  our  despair, 

Fond,  fairest  boy, 
That  heaven  is  God's,  and  thou  art  there, 

With  him  in  joy  ; 
There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes  ; 
There  beauty's  stream  forever  flows  ; 
And  pleasure's  day  no  sunset  knows, 
Casa  Wappy  ! 

Farewell,  then,  —  for  a  while,  farewell,  — 

Pride  of  my  heart ! 
It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell, 

Thus  torn  apart. 

Time's  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee  ; 

And  dark  howe'er  life's  night  may  be, 

Beyond  the  grave  I  '11  meet  with  thee, 

Casa  Wappy  ! 

David  Macbeth  Moir. 


MOTHER  AND   POET. 

TURIN,  —  AFTER    NEWS    FROM  GAETA.       1861. 

[This  was  Laura  Savio  of  Turin,  a  poetess  and   patriot,  whose 
sons  were  killed  at  Ancona  and  Caeta.] 


Dead  !  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 


Dead  !  both  my  boys  !    When  you  sit  at  the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

II. 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said. 
But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here, 

The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
Forever  instead. 

in. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?  0,  vain  ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk  teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the 
pain  ? 
Ah,  boys,  how  you  hurt  !  you  were  strong  as 
you  pressed, 
And  I  proud  by  that  test. 

IV. 

What  art 's  for  a  woman  !     To  hold  on  her  knees 
Both  darlings  !  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her 
throat 
Cling,  struggle  a  little  !  to  sew  by  degrees 
And 'broider the long-clothesandneat little  coat! 
To  dream  and  to  dote. 


To  teach  them It  stings  there.    I  made  them 

indeed 
Speak  plain  the  wTord   "country,"   I  taught 
them,  no  doubt, 
Thata  country's  a thingmen should dieforat  need. 
I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  turned  out. 

VI. 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed ....  0  my  beautiful 
eyes  ! . .  .  . 
I  exulted  !  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.  —  But  then  the  sur- 
prise, 
When  one  sits  quite  alone  !  —  Then  one  weeps, 
then  one  kneels  ! 
—  God  !  how  the  house  feels  ! 

VII. 

At  first  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moiled 
With  mykisses,  of  camp-life,  andglory,  andhow 
They  both  loved  me,  and  soon,  coming  home  to 
be  spoiled, 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

VIII. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin.  ' '  Ancona  was  free ! " 
And  some  one  came  put  of  the  cheers  in  the  street 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me. 
—  My  Guidowas  dead  !  —  I  fell  down  at  his  feet, 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 


# 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


193 


ft 


IX. 

I  bore  it ;  —  friends  soothed  me  :  my  grief  looked 
sublime 
As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  remained 
To  be  leant  on  and  walked  with,  recalling  the  time 
When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us 
strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gained. 

x. 

And  letters  still  came,  —  shorter,  sadder,  more 
strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand.    "  I  was  not  to  faint. 
One  loved  me  for  two. . .  would  be  with  me  erelong : 
And  '  Viva  Italia  '  he  died  for,  our  saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

XI. 

My  Nanni  would  add  "he  was  safe,  and  aware 
Of  a  presence  that  turned  off  the  balls  .  .  .  was 
imprest 
It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I  could  bear, 
And  how  't  was  impossible,  quite  dispossessed, 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 
XII. 
On  which  without  pause  up  the  telegraph  line 
Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta  :  — 
"Shot. 
Tell  his  mother."  Ah,  ah,  "  his,"  "their"  mother  ; 
not  "mine." 
No  voice  says  "my  mother ' '  again  to  me.  What  1 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 

XIII. 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with  heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive  not  of  woe  ? 

I  think  not.  Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  love  and  sorrow  which  reconciled  so 
The  above  and  below. 

xiv. 
0    Christ   of  the   seven  wounds,  who   look'dst 
through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  thy  mother  !  consider,  I  pray, 

How  we  comi i  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark, 

Whose  suns,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes 
turned  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say  ! 

xv. 
Both  boys  dead  !  but  that's  outof  nature.     Weal] 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always 
keep  one. 
'T  were  imbecile  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall. 
And  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

XVI. 

Ah,  ah,  ah  !  when  Gaeta  's  taken,  what  then  ? 
When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her 
sport 


Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashingsouls  out  of  men  ? 
When  your  guns  at  Cavalli  with  final  retort 
Have  cut  the  game  short,  — 

XVII. 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 

When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white, 

green,  and  red, 

When  you  have  your  country  from  mountain  to  sea, 

When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head, 

(And  I  have  my  dead, ) 

XVIII. 

"What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring  your 
bells  low, 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly  !  —  My  country 
is  there, 
Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow, 
My  Italy  's  there,  — with  my  brave  civic  pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair. 

XIX. 

Forgive   me.     Some   women    bear    children    in 
strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self-scorn. 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at 
length 
Into  such  wail  as  this  !  —  and  we  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

xx. 

Dead  !  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  west, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  east  by  the  sea  ! 

Both  !  both  my  boys  !  —  If  in  keeping  the  feast 

You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 

Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


THE   TWO   APRIL   MORNINGS. 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 

Uprose  the  morning  sun  ; 
And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked,  and  said, 

"  The  will  of  God  be  done  !  " 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 

With  hair  of  glittering  gray  ; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  mi  thai  morning,  through  the  grass 

And  by  the  steaming  rills 
We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 

A  day  among  the  hills. 

"  Our  work,"  said  I,  "  was  well  begun  ; 

Then  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 

So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ? " 


3~ 


-ff 


ft 


194 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop  ; 

And,  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 

To  me  he  made  reply  : 

"Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 

Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this,  which  I  have  left 

Full  thirty  years  behind. 

"  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 

Such  colors,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky  that  April  morn, 

Of  this  the  very  brother. 

' '  "With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 

Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 
And,  coming  to  the  church,  stopped  short 

Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

"  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 

The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 
And  then  she  sang  ;  —  she  would  have  been 

A  very  nightingale. 

"  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay  ; 

And  yet  I  loved  her  more  — 
For  so  it  seemed  —  than  till  that  day 

I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

"And,  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met 

Beside  the  churchyard  yew 
A  blooming  girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 

With  points  of  morning  dew. 

"  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare  ; 

Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white  : 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 

It  was  a  pure  delight  ! 

"No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 

E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free  ; 
She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 

That  dances  on  the  sea. 

"  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 

Which  I  could  ill  confine  ; 
I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again : 

And  did  not  wish  her  mine  !  " 

—  Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 

Methinks  I  see  him  stand 
As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 

Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


HESTER. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavor. 


A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  llu  shed  her  spirit ; 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call  ;  —  if  't  was  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool  ; 
But  she  was  trained  in  nature's  school, 
Nature  had  blessed  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind  ; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind,  ■ — 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore  ! 
Shall  we  not  meet  as  heretofore 
Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 

Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day,  — 

A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away,  — 

A  sweet  forewarning  ? 

Charles  Lamb, 


THE   LOST   LOVE. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove  ; 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  0 

The  difference  to  me  ! 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE   LOST  SISTER. 

They  waked  me  from  my  sleep,  I  knew  not  why, 
And  bade  me  hasten  where  a  midnight  lamp 
Gleamed  from  an  inner  chamber.     There  she  lay, 


te- 


SZJ 


With  brow  so  pale,  who  yester-morn  breathed 

forth 
Through  joyous  smiles  her  superflux  of  bliss 
Into  the  hearts  of  others.     By  her  side 
Her  hoary  sire,  with  speechless  sorrow,  gazed 
Upon  the  stricken  idol,  —  all  dismayed 
Beneath  his  God's  rebuke.     And  she  who  nursed 
That  fair  young  creature  at  her  gentle  breast, 
And  oft   those  sunny  locks  had   decked   with 

buds 
Of  rose  and  jasmine,  shuddering  wiped  the  dews 
Which  death  distils. 

The  sufferer  just  had  given 
Her  long  farewell,  and  for  the  last,  last  time 
Touched  with  cold  lips  Iris  cheek  who  led  so 

late 
Her  footsteps  to  the  altar,  and  received 
In  the  deep  transport  of  an  ardent  heart 
Her  vow  of  love.     And  she  had  striven  to  press 
That  golden  circlet  with  her  bloodless  hand 
Back  on  his  finger,  which  he  kneeling -gave 
At  the  bright  bridal  morn.     So  there  she  lay 
In  calm  endurance,  like  the  smitten  lamb 
Wounded  in  flowery  pastures,  from  whose  breast 
The  dreaded  bitterness  of  death  had  passed. 
—  But  a  faint  wail  disturbed  the  silent  scene, 
And  in  its  nurse's  arms  a  new-born  babe 
Was  borne  in  utter  helplessness  along, 
Before  that  dying  eye. 

Its  gathered  film 
Kindled  one  moment  with  a  sudden  glow 
Of  tearless  agony,  —  and  fearful  pangs, 
hacking  the  rigid  features,  told  how  strong 
A  mother's  love  doth  root  itself.     One  cry 
Of  bitter  anguish,  blent  with  fervent  prayer, 
Went  up  to  Heaven,  —  and,  as  its  cadence  sank, 
Her  spirit  entered  there. 

Morn  after  morn 
Rose  and  retired  ;  yet  still  as  in  a  dream 
I  seemed  to  move.     The  certainty  of  loss 
Fell  not  at  once  upon  me.     Then  I  wept 
As  weep  the  sisterless.  —  For  thou  wert  fled, 
My  only,  my  beloved,  my  sainted  one,  — 
Twin  of  my  spirit  !  and  my  numbered  days 
Must  wear  the  sable  of  that  midnight  hour 
Which  rent  thee  from  me. 

LYD1A  h.  SlGOURNEY. 


GO   TO   THY   REST. 

Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child  ! 
Go  to  thy  dreamless  bed, 
While  yel  so  gentle,  tindefiled, 
With  blessings  on  thy  head. 


Fresh  roses  in  thy  hand, 
Buds  on  thy  pillow  laid, 
Haste  from  this  dark  and  fearful  land, 
Where  flowers  so  quickly  fade. 

Ere  sin  had  seared  the  breast, 
Or  sorrow  woke  the  tear, 
Rise  to  thy  throne  of  changeless  rest, 
In  yon  celestial  sphere  ! 

Because  thy  smile  was  fair, 
Thy  lip  and  eye  so  bright, 
Because  thy  loving  cradle-care 
Was  such  a  dear  delight, 

Shall  love,  with  weak  embrace, 
Thy  upward  wing  detain  ? 
No  !  gentle  angel,  seek  thy  place 

Amid  the  cherub  train. 

Anonymous. 


HISTORY   OF   A  LIFE. 

Day  dawned  ;  within  a  curtained  room, 

Filled  to  faintness  with  perfume, 

A  lady  lay  at  point  of  doom. 

Day  closed  ;  a  child  had  seen  the  light  : 

But,  for  the  lady  fair  and  bright, 

She  rested  in  undreaming  night. 

Spring  rose  ;  the  lady's  grave  was  green  ; 

And  near  it,  oftentimes,  was  seen 

A  gentle  boy  with  thoughtful  mien. 

Years  fled  ;  he  wore  a  manly  face, 

And  struggled  in  the  world's  rough  race, 

And  won  at  last  a  lofty  place. 

And  then  he  died  !  behold  before  ye 

Humanity's  poor  sum  and  story  ; 

Life  —  Death  —  and  all  that  is  of  Glory. 

Barky  Cornwai  i  . 


O,    WHY    SHOULD    THE    SPIRIT    OF 
MORTAL    BE    PROUD? 

[The  following'  poem  was  a  partii  ular  favorite  with  Mr.  Lincoln. 
Mr.  F.  B.  Carpenter,  the  artist,  writes  thai  while  engaged  in  paint- 
ing his  picture  at  the  White  House,  he  was  alone  one  evening  with  the 
Pn  ident  in  his  room,  when  lie  said  :  "  There  is  a  pt  em  whi<  h  lias 
been  a  great  favorite  with  me  for  years,  which  was  first  shown  to 
me  when  a  y<>un^  in. m  by  a  friend,  and  which  I  afterwards  saw 
and  cut  from  a  newspaper  and  learned  by  heart.  I  would,"  lie 
continued,  "  give  a  great  deal  to  know  who  wrote  it,  but  have  never 
been  able  to  ascertain."] 

0,  why  should  tin*  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  7 
Like  a  swift-fleeting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  <>f  tin-  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 


Man  passes  from  life  to  bis  resl  in  the  grave. 


b~ 


~ff 


196 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 

Be  scattered  around  and  together  be  laid  ; 

And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the 

high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 

The  infant  a  mother  attended  and  loved, 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who  proved  ; 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who  blessed, 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in 

whose  eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure, — her  triumphs  are  by ; 
And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and  praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath  borne  ; 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath  worn  ; 
The  eye  of  the  sage  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depth  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant,  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap  ; 
The  herdsman,  wdio  climbed  with  his  goats  up  the 

steep  ; 
The  beggar,  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven, 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 
Have  cpaietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flowers  or  the  weed 
That  withers  away  to  let  others  succeed  ; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold, 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  our  fathers  have  been  ; 
"We  see  the  same  sights  our  fathers  have  seen,  — 
"We  drink  the  same  stream  and  view  the  same  sun, 
Aud  run  the  same  course  our  fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers  would 

think  ; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers  would 

shrink, 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  they  also  would  cling  ; 
But  it  speeds  for  us  all,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved,  but  the  story  we  cannot  unfold  ; 
They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold ; 
They  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers 

will  come  ; 
They  joyed,  but  the  tongue  of  their  gladness  is 

dumb. 

They  died,  ay  !  they  died :  and  we  things  that 

are  now, 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 


"Who  make  in  their  dwelling  a  transient  abode, 
Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage 
road. 

Yea  !  hope  and  despondency,  pleasure  and  pain, 
We  mingle  together  in  sunshine  and  rain  ; 
And  the  smiles  and  the  tears,  the  song  and  the 

dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'T  is  the  wink  of  an  eye,  't  is  the  draught  of  a  breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud,  — 
0,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 

ANONYMOUS. 


ELEONORA. 

ELEGY   ON    THE   COUNTESS   OF   ABINGDON. 

No  single  virtue  we  could  most  commend, 
Whether  the  wife,  the  mother,  or  the  friend  ; 
For  she  was  all,  in  that  supreme  degree, 
That  as  no  one  prevailed,  so  all  was  she. 
The  several  parts  lay  hidden  in  the  piece  ; 
The  occasion  but  exerted  that,  or  this. 

A  wife  as  tender,  and  as  true  withal, 
As  the  first  woman  was  before  her  fall  : 
Made  for  the  man,  of  whom  she  was  a  ]iart  ; 
Made  to  attract  his  eyes,  and  keep  his  heart. 
A  second  Eve,  but  by  no  crime  accursed  ; 
As  beauteous,  not  as  brittle,  as  the  first. 
Had  she  been  first,  still  Paradise  had  been, 
And  death  had  found  no  entrance  by  her  sin. 
So  she  not  only  had  preserved  from  ill 
Her  sex  and  ours,  but  lived  their  pattern  still. 

Love  and  obedience  to  her  lord  she  bore  ; 
She  much  obeyed  him,  but  she  loved  him  more  : 
Not  awed  to  duty  by  superior  sway, 
But  taught  by  his  indulgence  to  obey. 
Thus  we  love  God,  as  author  of  our  good. 

Yet  unemployed  no  minute  slipped  away  ; 
Moments  were  precious  in  so  short  a  stay. 
The  haste  of  Heaven  to  have  her  was  so  great 
That  some  were  single  acts,  though  each  complete  ; 
But  every  act  stood  ready  to  repeat. 

Her  fellow-saints  with  busy  care  will  look 
For  her  blest  name  in  fate's  eternal  book  ; 
And,  pleased  to  be  outdone,  with  joy  will  see 
Numberless  virtues,  endless  charity  : 
But  more  will  wonder  at  so  short  an  age, 
To  find  a  blank  beyond  the  thirtieth  page  : 
And  with  a  pious  fear  begin  to  doubt 
The  piece  imperfect,  and  the  rest  torn  out. 
But  'twasher  Saviour's  time  ;  and  could  there  be 
A  copy  near  the  original,  't  was  she. 


IS- 


rn 


p* 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


HI 


197 


As  precious  gums  are  not  for  lasting  fire, 
They  but  perfume  the  temple,  and  expire  ; 
So  was  she  soon  exhaled,  and  vanished  hence,  — 
A  short  sweet  odor,  of  a  vast  expense. 
She  vanished,  we  can  scarcely  say  she  died  ; 
For  but  a  now  did  heaven  and  earth  divide  : 
She  passed  serenely  with  a  single  breath  ; 
This  moment  perfect  health,  the  next  was  death: 
One  siidi  did  her  eternal  bliss  assure  ; 
So  little  penance  needs,  when  souls  are  almostpure. 
As  gentle  dreams  our  waking  thoughts  pursue  ; 
Or,  one  dream  passed,  we  slide  into  a  new  ; 
So  close  they  follow,  such  wild  order  keep, 
We  think  ourselves  awake,  and  are  asleep  : 
So  softly  death  succeeded  life  in  her  : 
She  did  but  dream  of  heaven,  and  she  was  there. 

No  pains  she  suffered,  nor  expired  with  noise  ; 

Her  soul  was  whispered  out  with  God's  still  voice ; 

As  an  old  friend  is  beckoned  to  a  feast, 

And  treated  like  a  long-familiar  guest. 

He  took  her  as  he  found,  but  found  her  so, 

As  one  in  hourly  readiness  to  go  : 

E'en  on  that  day,  in  all  her  trim  prepared  ; 

As  early  notice  she  from  heaven  had  heard, 

And  some  descending  courier  from  above 

Had  given  her  timely  warning  to  remove  ; 

Or  counselled  her  to  dress  the  nuptial  room, 

For  on  that  night  the  bridegroom  was  to  come. 

He  kept  his  hour,  and  found  her  where  she  lay 

Clothed  all  in  white,  the  livery  of  the  day. 

John  Dryden. 


FAREWELL    TO    THEE, 
DAUGHTER. 


ARABY'S 


FROM        THE    FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

I\\  i:  i.wr.LL,  — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea  ;) 
No  pearl  ever  lay  under  Oman's  green  water 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in  thee. 

<  I,  fail  as  the.  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love's  witchery 
came, 
Like  tin1  wind  of  the  south  o'er  a  summer  lute 
blowing, 
And  bushed  all  itsmusic  and  withered  it  sframe  ! 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids  a  ml  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  naught  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up  her 

bomb. 

i 
And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning, 

And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the 

old. 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  returning 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  .-!ol  .  is  told. 


The  young  village  maid,  when  with  flowers  she 
dresses 

Her  dark-flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day, 
Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her  tresses, 

She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  of  her  hero  !  forget  thee,  — 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they 
start, 

Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  hero  she  '11  set  thee, 
Embalmed  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart. 

Farewell !  —  be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 
With  everything  beauteous  that  grows  in  the 
deep  ; 

Each  flower  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept ; 

With  many  a  shell,   in  whose  hollow-wreathed 
chamber, 
We,  Peris  of  ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We  '11  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head  ; 

We  '11  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian  are 
sparkling, 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 

Farewell !  —  farewell !  — ■  until  pity's  sweet  foun- 
tain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 
They  '11  weep  for  the  Chieftain  who  died  on  that 
mountain, 
They  '11  weep  for  the  Maiden  who  sleeps  in  the 

wave. 

Thomas  Moore. 


FAIR   HELEN   OF   KIRKCONNELL. 

[■"  A  lady  of  the  name  of  Helen  Irving  or  Bell  (for  this  is  disputed 
by  the  two  clans),  daughter  of  the  laird  of  Kirkconnell,  in  Dun 
shire,  anil  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  was  beloved  by  two  gentle- 
men in  the   neighborhood.     The  n  ime  of  the  favored  suitor  was 
Adam  Fleming  of  Kirkpatri   k  ;  tli.it  of  the  other  has  escaped  tra- 
dition,   although  i*   has   been   alleged   that   he    wis    a    Bell    oi 
■  House.   The  addresses  of  the  latter  were,  however,  favored 
I  by  the  friends  of  the  lady,  and  the  lovers  were  therefore  obliged  to 
I  meet  in  secret,  and  by  night,  in  the  churchyard  of  Kirkconnell,  a 
!  romantic  spot  surrounded  by  'he  river  Kirtle.      Purine  one  of  these 

(  private  interviews,  the  jealous  and  despised  lover  suddenly  ap- 

peared    on  the  opposite   bank  of   the    stream,  and  levelled  his 

Carabine  at  the  breast  of  his  rival.     Helen  threw  herself  before  her 

received  in  her  bosom  the  bullet,  and  died  in  his  arms.     A 

1     perate  and  mortal  combal  ensued  between  Fl ig  and  the 

murderer,  in  which  the  latter  was  cut  to  pieces.    Other  accounts 
say  that  Fleming  pursued  his  enemy  t"  Spain,  and  slew  him  in  the 

.  of  Madrid."  — SIR   WALTKR    SCOTT.I 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies  1 
Xiodit  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
0  that    I   were  w  here   Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lee  ! 


■e- 


-ff 


198 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


■a 


Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  niy  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succor  me  ! 

O,  think  ye  na  my  heart  was  sair, 
"When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spake  nae  mair ! 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  meikle  care, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lee. 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lee,  — 

I  lighted  down,  my  sword  did  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

0  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare  ! 

1  '11  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  forevermair 

Until  the  day  I  dee  ! 

0  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies  ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,  ' '  Haste,  and  come  to  me  ! " 

0  Helen  fair  !  0  Helen  chaste  ! 
If  I  were  with  thee  I  were  blest, 
"Where  thou  lies  low,  and  takes  thy  rest, 

On  fair  Kirkconnell  lee. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green  ; 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying 

On  fair  Kirkconnell  lee. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies  ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries, 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


A   ROUGH   RHYME   ON   A   ROUGH 
MATTER. 

THE    ENGLISH    GAME    LAWS. 

The  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping, 

Under  the  moonlight  still. 

Leaping  late  and  early, 

Till  under  their  bite  and  their  tread, 
The  swedes,  and  the  wheat,  and  the  barley 

Lay  cankered,  and  trampled,  and  dead. 


A  poacher's  widow  sat  sighing 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  bank, 

Where,  under  the  gloomy  fir-woods, 
One  spot  in  the  lea  throve  rank. 

She  watched  a  long  tuft  of  clover, 

Where  rabbit  or  hare  never  ran, 
For  its  black  sour  haulm  covered  over 

The  blood  of  a  murdered  man. 

She  thought  of  the  dark  plantation, 

And  the  hares,  and  her  husband's  blood, 

And  the  voice  of  her  indignation 
Rose  up  to  the  throne  of  God. 

"  I  am  long  past  wailing  and  whining, — 
I  have  wept  too  much  in  my  life  : 

I  've  had  twenty  years  of  pining 
As  an  English  laborer's  wife. 

' '  A  laborer  in  Christian  England, 
Where  they  cant  of  a  Saviour's  name, 

And  yet  waste  men's  lives,  like  the  vermin's, 
For  a  few  more  brace  of  game. 

"  There'sbloodonyournewforeign  shrubs,  sqvnre. 
There 's  blood  on  your  pointer's  feet ; 

There 's  blood  on  the  game  you  sell,  squire, 
And  there 's  blood  on  the  game  you  eat. 

"  You  have  sold  the  laboring  man,  squire, 

Both  body  and  soul  to  shame, 
To  pay  for  your  seat  in  the  House,  squire, 

And  to  pay  for  the  feed  of  your  game. 

"You  made  him  a  poacher  yourself,  squire, 
When  you  'd  give  neither  work  nor  meat, 

And  your  barley-fed  hares  robbed  the  garden 
At  our  starving  children's  feet. 

"  When,  packed  in  one  reeking  chamber, 
Man,  maid,  mother,  and  little  ones  lay  ; 

While  the  rain  pattered  in  on  the  rotten  bride-bed, 
And  the.  walls  let  in  the  day. 

"  "When  we  lay  in  the  burning  fever, 

On  the  mud  of  the  cold  clay  floor, 
Till  you  parted  us  all  for  three  months,  squire, 

At  the  cursed  workhouse  door. 

"  We  quarrelled  like  brutes,  and  who  wonders  ? 

What  self-respect  could  we  keep, 
Worse  housed  than  your  hacks  and  your  pointers, 

Worse  fed  than  your  hogs  and  your  sheep  ? 

"  Our  daughters,  with  base-born  babies, 
Have  wandered  away  in  their  shame  ; 

If  your  misses  had  slept,  squire,  where  they  did, 
Your  misses  might  do  the  same. 


—tr 


THE    POACHER'S    GAME. 

'  There  's  Mood  on  your  foreign  shrubs.,  squire. 
There  ' s  blood  on  your  pointer*  s  feet  : 
There  's  blood  on  the  game  you  sell,  squire, 
A  ud  there  's  blood  on  the  game  you  eat." 


Pr 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


199 


"  Can  your  lady  patch  hearts  that  are  hreaking, 

With  handfuls  of  coals  and  rice, 
Or  by  dealing  out  flannel  and  sheeting 

A  little  below  cost  price  ? 

"  You  may  tire  of  the  jail  and  the  workhouse, 
And  take  to  allotments  and  schools, 

But  you  've  run  up  a  debt  that  will  never 
Be  repaid  us  by  penny-club  rules. 

"In  the  season  of  shame  and  sadness, 

In  the  dark  and  dreary  day, 
When  scrofula,  gout,  and  madness 

Are  eating  your  race  away  ; 

"  When  to  kennels  and  liveried  varlets 
You  have  cast  your  daughters'  bread, 

And,  worn  out  with  liquor  and  harlots, 
Your  heir  at  your  feet  lies  dead  ; 

"When    your    youngest,  the   mealy-mouthed 
rector, 

Lets  your  soul  rot  asleep  to  the  grave, 
You  will  find  in  your  God  the  protector 

Of  the  freeman  you  fancied  your  slave." 

She  looked  at  the  tuft  of  clover, 
And  wept  till  her  heart  grew  light ; 

And  at  last,  when  her  passion  was  over, 
Went  wandering  into  the  night. 

But  the  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  uplands  still, 

Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  hill. 

Charles  Kingslky. 


"THEY'RE  DEAR   FISH   TO   ME." 

The  farmer's  wife  sat  at  the  door, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  see  ; 
And  blithesome  were  the  wee,  wee  bairns 

That  played  around  her  knee. 

When,  bending  'neath  her  heavy  creel, 

A  poor  fish-wife  came  by, 
And,  turning  from  the  toilsome  road, 

I'nto  the  door  drew  nigh. 

She  laid  her  burden  on  Hie  green, 

And  spread  its  scaly  store, 
With  trembling  hands  and  pleading  words 

She  told  them  o'er  and  o'er. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  young  guidwife, 
"  We  're  no  sae  scarce  o'  cheer ; 

Tak'  up  your  creel,  and  gang  your  ways,  — 
I  '11  buy  Dae  fish  sae  dear." 


Bending  beneath  her  load  again, 

A  weary  sight  to  see  ; 
Right  sorely  sighed  the  poor  fish-wife, 

"They 're  dear  fish  to  me  ! 

"  Our  boat  was  oot  ae  fearfu'  night, 

And  when  the  storm  blew  o'er, 
My  husband,  and  my  three  brave  sons, 

Lay  corpses  on  the  shore. 

"I  've  been  a  wife  for  thirty  years, 

A  childless  widow  three  ; 
I  maun  buy  them  now  to  sell  again,  — 

They  're  dear  fish  to  me  !  " 

The  farmer's  wife  turned  to  the  door,  — 

What  was 't  upon  her  cheek  ? 
What  was  there  rising  in  her  breast, 

That  then  she  scarce  could  speak  ? 

She  thought  upon  her  ain  guidman, 

Her  lightsome  laddies  three  ; 
The  woman's  words  had  pierced  her  heart,  — 

"  They 're  dear  fish  to  me  !" 

"  Come  back,"  she  cried,  with  quivering  voice, 

And  pity's  gathering  tear  ; 
"Come  in,  come  in,  my  poor  woman, 

Ye  're  kindly  welcome  here. 

' '  I  kentna  o'  your  aching  heart, 

Your  weary  lot  to  dree  ; 
I  '11  ne'er  forget  your  sad,  sad  words  : 

'  They  're  dear  fish  to  me  ! '  " 

Ay,  let  the  happy-hearted  learn 

To  pause  ere  they  deny 
The  meed  of  honest  toil,  and  think 

How  much  their  gold  may  buy,  — 

How  much  of  manhood's  wasted  strength, 

What  woman's  misery,  — 
What  breaking  hearts  might  swell  the  cry  : 

"They're  dear  fish  to  me  !  " 

ANONYMOUS. 


HOME  THEY  BROUGHT  HER  WARRIOR 
DEAD. 

FROM    "THE    PRINCESS." 

HOME  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  : 
She  oor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry  ; 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 

Yet  Bhe  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 


IB- 


S' 


200 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


fb 


Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face , 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee,  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears,  — 
"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE   FLOWER   OF   FINAE. 

A    BRIGADE   BALLAD. 

f  Early  in  the  eighteenth  century  the  flower  of  the  Catholic  youth 
of  Ireland  were  drawn  away  to  recruit  the  ranks  of  the  Irish  Bri- 
gade in  the  service  of  the  Khuj  of  France.  These  recruits  were 
popularly  known  as  "  Wild  Geese."     Few  returned.] 

Bright  red  is  the  sun  on  the  waves  of  Lough 

Sheelin, 
A  cool  gentle  breeze  from  the  mountain  is  stealing, 
While  fair  round  its  islets  the  small  ripples  play, 
But  fairer  than  all  is  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

Her  hair  is  like  night,  and  her  eyes  like  gray 

morning, 
She  trips  on  the  heather  as  if  its  touch  scorning, 
Yet  her  heart  and  her  lips  are  as  mild  as  May  day, 
Sweet  Eily  MacMahon,  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

But  who  down  the  hillside  than  red  deer  runs 

fleeter  ? 
And  who  on  the  lake  side  is  hastening  to  greet  her  ? 
"Who  but  Fergus  O'Farrell,  the  fiery  and  gay, 
The  darling  and  pride  of  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

One  kiss  and  one  clasp,  and  one  wild  look  of  glad- 
ness ; 
Ah  !  why  do  they  change  on  a  sudden  to  sadness, — 
He  has  told  his  hard  fortune,  nor  more  he  can  stay, 
He  must  leave  his  poor  Eily  to  pine  at  Finae. 

For  Fergus  O'Farrell  was  true  to  his  sire-land, 
And  the  dark  hand  of  tyranny  drove  him  from 

Ireland  ; 
He  joins  the  Brigade,  in  the  wars  far  away, 
But  he  vows  he '11  come  back  totheFlowerof  Finae. 

He  fought  at  Cremona,  —  she  hears  of  his  story  ; 
He  fought  at  Cassano,  —  she  's  proud  of  his  glory, 
Yet  sadly  she  sings  "  Shule  Aroon  "  all  the  day, 
"0,  come,  come,  my  darling,  comehometo  Finae." 

Eight   long  years   have  passed,  till  she's  nigh 

broken-hearted, 
Her   reel,  and  her  rock,    and  her  flax   she  has 

parted  ; 
Shesails  with  the  "WildGeese"to  Flandersaway, 
And  leaves  her  sad  parents  alone  in  Finae. 


Lord  Clare  on  the  field  of  Ramillies  is  charging, 
Before  him  the  Sasanach  squadrons  enlarging,  — 
Behind  him  the  Cravats  their  sections  display,  — 
Beside  him  rides  Fergus  and  shouts  for  Finae. 

On  the  slopes  of  La  Judoigne  the  Frenchmen  are 

flying, 

Lord  Clare  and  his  squadrons  the  foe  still  defying, 
Outnumbered,  and  wounded,  retreat  in  array  ; 
And  bleeding  rides  Fergus  and  thinks  of  Finae. 

In  the  cloisters  of  Ypres  a  banner  is  swaying, 
And  by  it  a  pale  weeping  maiden  is  praying  ; 
That  flag  's  the  sole  trophy  of  Eamillies'  fray, 
This  nun  is  poor  Eily,  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

Thomas  Davis. 


SHULE  AROON. 

[The  following  old  Irish  ballad  has  reference  to  the  same  event.] 

I  woitld  I  were  on  yonder  hill, 
'T  is  there  I  'd  sit  and  cry  my  fill, 
And  every  tear  would  turn  a  mill, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  murnin  slan. 

Shule,  shule,  shule  aroon, 
Shule  go  succir,  agus  shule  go  cuin, 
Shule  go  den  durrus  augus  eligh  glum, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  murnin  slan. 

I  '11  sell  my  rock,  I  '11  sell  my  reel, 
I  '11  sell  my  only  spinning-wheel, 
To  buy  for  my  love  a  sword  of  steel, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  murnin  slan. 

I  '11  dye  my  petticoats,  —  dye  them  red, 
And  round  the  world  I  '11  beg  my  bread, 
Until  my  parents  shall  wish  me  dead, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  murnin  slan. 

I  wish,  I  wish,  I  wish  in  vain, 
I  wish  I  had  my  heart  again, 
And  vainly  think  I  'd  not  complain, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  murnin  slan. 

But  now  my  love  has  gone  to  France, 
To  try  his  fortune  to  advance, 
If  he  e'er  come  back  't  is  but  a  chance, 
Is  go  de  tu  mo  murnin  slan. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  MAID'S   LAMENT. 

I  loved  him  not  ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I  checked  him  while  he  spoke  ;  yet  could  he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 


tQ- 


-# 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


"Eb 


201 


For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 

My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he  found 

'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death  ! 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me  ;  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :  for  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears  ! 
"Merciful  God  !  "  such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

"These  may  she  never  share  !  " 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell  athwart  the  churchyard  gate 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 

Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  ye  be, 

And  0,  pray,  too,  for  me  ! 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER. 

TnnEE  students  were  travelling  over  the  Rhine  ; 
They  stopped  when  they  came  to  the  landlady's 

sign  ; 
"Good  landlady,  have  you  good  beer  and  wine  ? 
And  where  is  that  dear  little  daughter  of  thine?" 

"  My  beer  and  wine  are  fresh  and  clear  ; 
My  daughter  she  lies  on  the  cold  death-bier  !  " 
And  when  to  the  chamber  they  made  their  way, 
There,  dead,  in  a  coal-black  shrine,  she  lay. 

Tlie  first  lie  drew  near,  and  the  veil  gently  raised, 
And  on  her  pale  face  he  mournfully  gazed  : 
"  Ah  !  wert  thou  but  living  yet,"  he  said, 
"  I  'd  love  thee  from  this  time  forth,  fair  maid  !  " 

The  second  he  slowly  put  back  the  shroud, 
And  turned  him  away  and  wept  aloud  : 
"Ah  !  that  thou  liest  in  the  cold  death-bier  ! 
Alas  !   I  have  loved  thee  fin-  many  a  year  !" 

The  third  he  once  more  uplifted  the  veil, 
And  kissed  her  upon  her  month  so  pale  : 
"Thee  loved  I  always  ;  1  hive  still  but  thee  ; 
And  thee  will  I  love  through  eternity  !  " 

UHLAND.     translation  of  J.  S.  Dwight. 


HIGHLAND    MARY. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 
The  castle  <>'  Montgomery, 


Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender  ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder  ; 
But,  0,  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
Now  green  's  the  sod,  and  eauld  's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

0  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ; 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


THY   BRAES   WERE   BONNY. 

Tiiy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream  ! 

When  first  on  them  I  met  my  lover  ; 
Thy  braes  how  dreary,  Yarrow  stream  ! 

When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover. 

Forever  now,  0  Yarrow  stream  ! 

Thou  art  to  me  a  stream  of  sorrow  ; 
For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  1 

Behold  my  love,  the  flower  of  Yarrow. 

He  promised  me  a  milk-white  steed, 

To  hear  me  to  his  father's  bowers  ; 
He  promised  me  a  little  page, 

To  'squire  me  to  his  father's  towers  ; 
He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring,  — 

The  wedding-day  was  fixed  to-morrow; 
Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 

Alas,  his  watery  grave,  in  Yarrow  ! 

Sweet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met  ; 

My  passion  I  as  freely  told  him  ! 
Clasped  in  his  arms,  1  little  thoughl 

That  I  should  nevermore  behold  him  ! 


B- 


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tfc 


Scarce  was  he  gone,  I  saw  his  ghost ; 

It  vanished  with  a  shriek  of  sorrow  ; 
Thrice  did  the  water-wraith  ascend, 

And  gave  a  doleful  groan  through  Yarrow. 

His  mother  from  the  window  looked 

With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother  ; 
His  little  sister  weeping  walked 

The  greenwood  path  to  meet  her  hrother. 
They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him  west, 

They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough  ; 
They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night, 

They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow  ! 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look, 

Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother  ! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid  ; 

Alas,  thou  hast  no  more  a  brother  ! 
No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west, 

And  search  no  more  the  forest  thorough  ; 
For,  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark, 

He  fell  a  lifeless  corse  in  Yarrow. 

The  tear  shall  never  leave  my  cheek, 
No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow  ; 

I  '11  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream, 

And  then  with  thee  I  '11  sleep  in  Yarrow. 

John  Logan. 


WILLY  DROWNED   IN  YARROW. 

Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay 
Where  bonnie  grows  the  lily, 

I  heard  a  fair  maid  sighing  say, 
' '  My  wish  be  wi'  sweet  Willie  ! 

"Willie's  rare,  and  Willie  's  fair, 
And  Willie  's  wondrous  bonny  ; 

And  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 
Gin  e'er  he  married  ony. 

"  0  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south, 
From  where  my  Love  repaireth, 

Convey  a  kiss  frae  his  dear  mouth 
And  tell  me  how  he  fareth  ! 

"  0,  tell  sweet  Willie  to  come  doun 

And  bear  the  mavis  singing, 
And  see  the  birds  on  ilka  bush 

And  leaves  around  them  hinging. 

"The  lav' rock  there,  wi'  her  white  breast 
And  gentle  throat  sae  narrow  ; 

There  'a  sport  eneuch  for  gentlemen 
On  Leader  haughs  and  Yarrow. 

"  0,  Leader  haughs  are  wide  and  braid, 
And  Yarrow  haughs  are  bonny  ; 

There  Willie  hecht  to  many  me 
If  e'er  he  married  ony. 


"  But  Willie  's  gone,  whom  I  thought  on, 
And  does  not  hear  me  weeping  ; 

Draws  many  a  tear  frae  true  love's  e'e 
When  other  maids  are  sleeping. 

"Yestreen  I  made  my  bed  fu'  braid, 
The  night  I  '11  mak'  it  narrow, 

For  a'  the  livelang  winter  night 
I  lie  twined  o'  my  marrow. 

"  0,  came  ye  by  yon  water-side  ? 

Pou'd  you  the  rose  or  lily  ? 
Or  came  you  by  yon  meadow  green, 

Or  saw  you  my  sweet  Willie  ? " 

She  sought  him  up,  she  sought  him  down, 
She  sought  him  braid  and  narrow  ; 

Syne,  in  the  cleaving  of  a  craig, 

She  found  him  drowned  in  Yarrow  ! 

Anonymous. 


MARY'S   DREAM. 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 

Which  rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 
And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 

Her  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree, 
When  Mary  laid  her  down  to  sleep, 

Her  thoughts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea, 
When,  soft  and  slow,  a  voice  was  heard, 

Saying,  ' '  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! " 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 

Her  head,  to  ask  who  there  might  be, 
And  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand, 

With  visage  pale,  and  hollow  e'e. 
"  0  Mary  dear,  cold  is  my  clay  ; 

It  lies  beneath  a  stormy  sea. 
Far,  far  from  thee  I  sleep  in  death  ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

' '  Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days 

We  tossed  upon  the  raging  main  ; 
And  long  we  strove  our  bark  to  save, 

But  all  our  striving  was  in  vain. 
Even  then,  when  horror  chilled  my  blood, 

My  heart  was  filled  with  love  for  thee  : 
The  storm  is  past,  and  I  at  rest ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

"0  maiden  dear,  thyself  prepare  ; 

We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore, 
Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care, 

And  thou  and  I  shall  part  no  more  ! " 
Loud  crowed  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled, 

No  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see  ; 
But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said, 

"Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  !  " 

John  Lowe. 


43—- 


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BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


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203 


EVELYN   HOPE. 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think  ; 
The  shutters  are  shut,  —  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name,  — 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares  ; 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir,  — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What  !  your  soul  was  pure  and  true  ; 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew  ; 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

"We  were  fellow-mortals,  —  naught  beside  ? 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love  ; 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  ! 
Delayed,  it  may  be,  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few ; 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come  —  at  last  it  will  — 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall  say, 
In  the  lower  earth,  — in  the  years  long  still,  — 

That  body  and  soul  so  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  ofyourown  geranium's  red,  — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  line, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived,   I  shall  say,  so  much  since  then, 
Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 

Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 
Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  tie'  (dimes; 

Yet  one  thing      one    -in  my  soul's  full  scope, 
Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me,  — 

And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope  ! 

What    is  the  issue  >    let    US  see  ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold,  — 


There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young 
smile, 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young 
gold. 
So,  hush  !  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  ; 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet,  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret  !  go  to  sleep  ; 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 

Robert  Browning. 


LAMENT   OF   THE   IRISH   EMIGRANT. 

I  'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  mornin'  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride  ; 
The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high  ; 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary  ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek  ; 
And  I  still  keep  list'nin'  for  the  words 

You  nevermore  will  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near,  — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  ; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest,  — 
For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends  ; 
But,  0,  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary,  — 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride  ; 
There's  nothing  left  to  can'  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  Cud  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone  ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look'  on  your  brow, — 
I  bleSS  you,    Mary,   for  thnt  same. 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break,  — 


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POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


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When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake  ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore, — 
0,  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I  'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true  ! 
But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I  'm  goin'  to  ; 
They  say  there 's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there,  — 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

1  '11  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ; 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

"Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn, 

"When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

LADY  DUFFERIN. 


GINEVRA. 

.     If  ever  you  should  come  to  Modena, 
"Where  among  other  trophies  may  be  seen 
Tassoni's  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs  (72) 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandina), 
Stop  at  a  Palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  you  ;  but,  before  you  go, 
Enter  the  house  —  forget  it  not,  I  pray  — 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 

'T  is  of  a  Lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  last  of  that  illustrious  family  ; 
Done  by  Zampieri  (73)  —  but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
Hi'  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up  when  far  away. 

Slii'  sits  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up, 
As  though  she  said  "  Beware  !  "  her  vest  of  gold 
Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to 

foot, 
An  emerald  stone  in  every  golden  clasp  ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls. 

But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart,  — 


It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  »h  as  lied, 
Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  mouldering  heirloom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken  chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scripture  stories  from  the  Life  of  Christ,  — 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  Ancestor, 
That  by  the  way  —  it  may  be  true  or  false  — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture  ;  and  you  will  not 
When  you  have  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child,  — her  name  Ginevra, 
The  joy,  the  pride,  of  an  indulgent  Father  ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gayety, 
Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour  ; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum  ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy  ;  but  at  the  Nuptial  Feast, 
When  all  sate  down,  the  Bride  herself  was  wanting, 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !    Her  father  cried, 
"  'T  is  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love  !  " 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all  ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'T  was  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flj'ing  still, 
Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now7,  alas,  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guessed, 
But  that  she  was  not ! 

Weary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking, 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived,  —  and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  he  could  not  find,  he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless,  — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgotten, 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  Gallery, 
That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed  ;  and  'twas  said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
"Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place  ?" 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said  ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell  ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton, 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald  stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 


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BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


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2U5 


All  else  had  perished,  —  save  a  wedding-ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"  Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave  ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy  ; 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  forever  ! 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


THE   DISAPPOINTED    LOVER. 

I  will  go  hack  to  the  great  sweet  mother, 
Mother  ami  lover  of  men,  the  sea. 


THE   MISTLETOE   BOUGH. 

The  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall, 
The  holly  branch  shone  on  the  old  oak  wall  ; 
And  the  baron's  retainers  were  blithe  and  gay, 
And  keeping  their  Christmas  holiday. 
The  baron  beheld  with  a  father's  pride 
His  beautiful  child,  young  Lovell's  bride  ; 
"While  she  with  her  bright  eyes  seemed  to  be 
The  star  of  the  goodly  company. 

"  I  'm  weary  of  dancing  now,"  she  cried  ; 
"Here  tarry  a  moment,  —  I  '11  hide,  I  '11  hide  ! 
And,  Lovell,  be  sure  thou  'rt  first  to  trace 
The  clew  to  my  secret  lurking-place." 
Away  she  ran,  — and  her  friends  began 
Each  tower  to  search,  and  each  nook  to  scan  ; 
And  young  Lovell  cried,  "0,  where  dost  thou  hide  ? 
I  'm  lonesome  without  thee,  my  own  dear  bride." 

They  sought  her  that  night !  and  they  sought  her 

next  day  ! 
And  they  sought  her  in  vain  when  a  week  passed 

away  ! 
In  the  highest,  the  lowest,  the  loneliest  spot, 
Young  Lovell  sought  wildly,  — but  found  her  not. 
Ami  years  flew  by,  and  their  grief  at  last 
Was  told  as  a  sorrowful  tale  long  past  ; 
And  when  Lovell  appeared,  the  children  cried, 
"See  !  the  old  man  weeps  for  his  fairy  bride." 

At  length  an  oak  chest,  that  had  long  lain  hid, 
Was  found  in  the  castle,  —  they  raised  the  lid, 
And  a  skeleton  form  lay  mouldering  there 
In  the  bridal  wreath  of  that  lady  fair  ! 
0,  sad  was  her  fate  !  —  in  sportive  jest 
She  hid  from  her  lord  in  the  old  oak  chest. 
It  closed  with  a  spring  !  — and,  dreadful  doom, 
The  bride  lay  clasped  in  her  living  tomb  ! 

Thomas  HaYNES  Bayly. 


I  will  go  down  to  her,  I  and  none  other, 

Close  with  her,  kiss  her,  and  mix  her  with  me ; 

Cling  to  her,  strive  with  her,  hold  her  fast. 

0  fair  white  mother,  in  days  long  past 

Born  without  sister,  born  without  brother, 
Set  free  my  soul  as  thy  soul  is  free. 

0  fair  green-girdled  mother  of  mine, 

Sea,  that  art  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  rain, 
Thy  sweet  hard  kisses  are  strong  like  wine, 

Thy  large  embraces  are  keen  like  pain  ! 
Save  me  and  hide  me  with  all  thy  waves, 
Find  me  one  grave  of  thy  thousand  graves, 
Those  pure  cold  populous  graves  of  thine, 

Wrought  without  hand  in  a  world  without  stain. 

1  shall  sleep,  and  move  with  the  moving  ships, 
Change  as  the  winds  change,  veer  in  the  tide  ; 

My  lips  will  feast  on  the  foam  of  thy  lips, 

I  shall  rise  with  thy  rising,  with  thee  subside. 
Sleep,  and  not  know  if  she  be,  if  she  were, 
Filled  full  with  life  to  the  eyes  and  hair, 
As  a  rose  is  fulfilled  to  the  rose-leaf  tips 

With  splendid  summer  and  perfume  and  pride. 

This  woven  raiment  of  nights  and  days, 

Were  it  once  cast  off  and  unwound  from  me, 
Naked  and  glad  would  I  walk  in  thy  ways, 
Alive  and  aware  of  thy  waves  and  thee  ; 
Clear  of  the  whole  world,  hidden  at  home, 
Clothed  with  the  green,  and  crowned  with  the  foam, 
A  pulse  of  the.  life  of  thy  straits  and  bays, 
A  vein  in  the  heart  of  the  streams  of  the  sea. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


ANNABEL   LEE. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  lived,  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea  ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee, — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  long  ago, 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

A  wind  Mew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 


^ 


20G 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


-ft 


So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came, 

Ami  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me. 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know) 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we. 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life,  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


MINSTREL'S   SONG. 

0,  sing  unto  my  roundelay  ! 

0,  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me  ! 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday  ; 
Like  a  running  river  be. 
My  love  vs  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  neck  as  the  summer  snow, 

Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light ; 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 
My  love  is  dead,  &c. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle's  note ; 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  can  be  ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 

O,  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree  ! 
My  love  is  dead,  &c. 

Hark  !  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 

In  tin-  briered  dell  below  ; 
Hark  !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 

To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 
My  love  is  dead,  &c. 


See  !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high  ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud, 
Winter  than  the  morning  sky, 

Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead,  &c. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love's  grave 
Shall  the  barren  flowers  be  laid, 

Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  coldness  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead,  &c. 

With  my  hands  I  '11  bind  the  briers 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre  ; 
Ouphant  fairy,  light  your  fires ; 

Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  dead,  &c. 

Come,  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn, 
Drain  my  heart's  blood  away  ; 

Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 

Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead,  &c. 

Water- witches,  crowned  with  reytes, 

Bear  me  to  your  lethal  tide. 
I  die  !  I  come  !  my  true-love  waits. 

Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


THE  DIRTY   OLD   MAN. 

A   LAY   OF   LEADENHALL. 

[A  singular  man,  named  Nathaniel  Bentley,  for  many  years  kept 
a  large  hardware  shop  in  Leadenhall  Street,  London.  He  was 
best  known  as  Dirty  Dick  (Dick,  for  alliteration's  sake,  probably}, 
and  his  place  of  business  as  the  Dirty  Warehouse.  He  died  about 
the  year  1809.  These  verses  accord  with  the  accounts  respecting 
himself  and  his  house.] 

In  a  dirty  old  house  lived  a  Dirty  Old  Man  ; 
Soap,  towels,  or  brashes  were  not  in  his  plan. 
For  forty  long  years,  as  the  neighbors  declared, 
His  house  never  once  had  been  cleaned  or  repaired. 

'T  was  a  scandal  and  shame  to  the  business-like 

street, 
One  terrible  blot  in  a  ledger  so  neat : 
The  shop  full  of  hardware,  but  black  as  a  hearse, 
And  the  rest  of  the  mansion  a  thousand  times  worse. 

Outside,  the  old  plaster,  all  spatter  and  stain, 
Looked  spotty  in  sunshine  and  streaky  in  rain  ; 
The  window-sills  sprouted  with  mildewy  grass, 
And  the  panes  from  being  broken  were  known  to 
be  glass. 


On  the  rickety  signboard  no  learning  could  spell 
The  merchant  who  sold,  or  the  goods  he  'd   to 
sell: 


& 


d3~" 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


207 


ft 


But  for  house  and  for  man  a  new  title  took  growth, 
Like  a  fungus 
both. 


the  Dirt  gave  its  name  to  them 


Within,  there  were  carpets  and  cushions  of  dust, 
The  wood  was  half  rot,  and  the  metal  half  rust, 
Old  curtains,  half  cobwebs,  hung  grimly  aloof ; 
'T  was  a  Spiders'  Elysium  from  cellar  to  roof. 

There,  king  of  the  spiders,  the  Dirty  Old  Man 
Lives  busy  and  dirty  as  ever  he  can  ; 
With  dirt  on  his  fingers  and  dirt  on  his  face, 
For  the  Dirty  Old  Man  thinks  the  dirt  no  disgrace. 

From  his  wigto  his  shoes,  from  his  coat  tohisshirt, 
His  clothes  are  a  proverb,  a  marvel  of  dirt ; 
The  dirt  is  pervading,  unfading,  exceeding,  — 
Yet  the  Dirty  Old  Man  has  both  learning  and 
breeding. 

Fine  dames  from  their  carriages,  noble  and  fair, 
Have  entered  his  shop,  less  to  buy  than  to  stare  : 
And  have  afterwards  said,  though  the  dirt  was 

so  frightful, 
The  Dirty  Man's  manners  were  truly  delightful. 

Upstairsmight  they  venture,  in  dirt  and  in  gloom, 
To  peep  at  the  door  of  the  wonderful  room 
Such  stories  are  told  about,  none  of  them  true  !  — ■ 
The  keyhole  itself  has  no  mortal  seen  through. 

That  room,  —  forty  years  since,  folk  settled  and 
decked  it. 

The  luncheon  's  prepared,  and  the  guests  are  ex- 
pected. 

Tin'  handsome  young  host  he  is  gallant  and  gay, 

For  his  love  and  her  friends  will  be  with  him  to-day. 

With  solid  and  dainty  the  table  is  drest, 

The  wine  beams  its  brightest,  the  flowers  bloom 

their  best ; 
Yet  the  host  need  not  smile,  and  no  guests  will 

appear, 
For  his  sweetheart  isdead,  as  he  shortly  shall  hear. 

Full  forty  years  since  turned  the  key  in  that  door. 
'T  is  a  room  deaf  and  dumb  mid  the  city's  uproar. 
The  guests,  forwhosejoyancethal  t  able  was  spread, 
May  now  enter  as  ghosts,  I'm- they 're  every  one  dead. 

Through  a  chink  in  the  shutter  dim  lights  come 

and  go ; 
The  seats  are  in  order,  the  dishes  a-row  : 
But  the  luncheon  was  wealth  to  the  rat  and  the 

mouse 
Whose  descendants  have  long  left  the  Dirty  Old 

House. 

Cup  an '1  platter  are  masked  in  thick  layers  of  dust ; 
The  Bowers  fallen  to  powder,  the  wine  swathed  in 
crust ; 


A  nosegay  was  laid  before  one  special  chair, 
And  the  faded  blue  ribbon  that  bound  it  lies  there. 

The  old  man  has  played  out  his  parts  in  the  scene. 
Wherever  he  now  is,  1  hope  he  's  more  clean. 
Yet  give  we  a  thought  free  of  scoffing  or  ban 

To  that  Dirty  Old  House  and  that  Dirty  Old  Man. 

William  alllngham. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  BORDER  WIDOW. 

[This  ballad  relates  to  the  execution  of  Cockburne  of  Hender- 
Iand,  a  border  freebooter,  hanged  over  the  gate  of  his  own  tower  by 
James  V.  in  his  famous  expedition,  in  1529,  against  the  marauders 
of  the  border.  In  a  deserted  burial-place  near  the  ruins  of  the  cas- 
tle, the  monument  of  Cockburne  and  his  lady  is  still  shown.  The 
following  inscription  is  still  legible,  though  defaced  :  — 
"HERE  LYES  PERYS  OF  COKBURNE  AND  HIS  WYFE 
MARJORY." 

Sir  Walter  Scott.J 

My  love  he  built  me  a  bonnie  bower, 
And  clad  it  a'  wi'  lily  flower  ; 
A  brawer  bower  ye  ne'er  did  see, 
Than  my  true-love  he  built  for  me. 

There  came  a  man,  by  middle  day, 
He  spied  his  sport,  and  went  away  ; 
And  brought  the  king  that  very  night, 
Who  brake  my  bower,  and  slew  my  knight. 

He  slew  my  knight,  to  me  sae  dear  ; 
He  slew  my  knight,  and  poind  his  gear  : 
My  servants  all  for  life  did  flee, 
And  left  me  in  extremitie. 

I  sewed  his  sheet,  making  my  mane  ; 
I  watched  the  corpse  mysell  alane  ; 
I  watched  his  body  night  and  day  ; 
No  living  creature  came  that  way. 

I  took  his  body  on  my  baric. 

And  whiles  I  gaed,  and  whiles  I  sat ; 

I  digged  a  grave,  and  laid  him  in, 

And  happed  him  with  the  sod  sae  green. 

But  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 
When  I  laid  the  moul'  on  his  yellow  hair  ? 
0,  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  wae, 
When  I  turned  about,  away  to  gac  ? 

Nae  living  man  I  '11  love  again, 
Since  that  my  lively  knight  is  slain  ; 
Wi'  ao  lock  o'  his  yellow  hair 
I  '11  chain  my  heart  forevermair. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   KING   OF   DENMARK'S    RIDE. 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 

(Hurry!) 
Thai  the  love  ofhis  heart  lay  Buffering, 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring ; 

(<  •,  ride  as  though  you  were  Hying  !) 


ta- 


-ff 


208 


rOEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


Better  lie  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl : 
And  his  rose  of  the  isles  is  dying  ! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed  ; 

(Hurry  !) 
Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need  ; 

(0,  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  Hank  ; 
Worn-out  chargers  staggered  and  sank  ; 
Bridles  were  slackened,  and  girths  were  burst ; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 
For  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying  ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one  ; 

(Hurry  !) 
They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  homeward 

gone  ; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying  ! 
The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful  child  ; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled  ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din, 
Then  he  dropped  ;  and  only  the  king  rode  in 
Where  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying  ! 

The  king  blew7  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn  ; 

(Silence  !) 
No  answer  came  ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  gray  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide  ; 
None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary  ride  ; 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 
Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying  ! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary. 
The  king  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest, 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast  ; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eying, 

The  tears  gushed  forth  which  he  strove  to  check  ; 

He  liowcd  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck  : 

"  0  steed,  that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 

Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying  !  " 

Caroline  Norton. 


HIGH-TIDE    ON    THE    COAST    OF    LIN- 
COLNSHIRE. 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three  ; 

"Pull  !  if  ye  never  pulled  before  ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  hee. 


"  Play  uppe,  play  nppe,  0  Boston  bells  ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells  ! 
Play  uppe  The  Brides  of  Endcrby  /  " 

Men  say  it  was  a  "stolen  tyde,"  — 
The  Lord  that  sent  it,  he  knows  all, 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall  ; 

And  there  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 

The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied, 

By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea-wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore  ; 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes  : 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies  ; 
And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth !  — 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  all  along  ; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
Faintly,  came  her  milking-song. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 
"For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow  ! 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ! 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot !  come  uppe,  Lightfoot ! 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow  ! 
Come  uppe,  Jetty  !  rise  and  follow  ; 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ! 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot  !  come  uppe,  Lightfoot ! 
Come  uppe,  Jetty  !  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 

If  it  be  long —  ay,  long  ago  — 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 

Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong  ; 

And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee, 

Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 

That  ring  the  tune  of  Endcrby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  seene, 

Save  where,  full  fyve  good  miles  away, 
The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene. 

And  lo  !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 


-ff 


fl- 


BEREAVEMEXT   AND   DEATH. 


— a 

209      I 


t 


The  swannerds,  where  their  sedges  are, 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath  ; 

The  shepherde  lads  1  heard  afarre, 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 

Till,  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea, 

Came  downe  that  kyndly  message  free, 

The  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby. 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky, 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They  sayde,  "  And  why  should  this  thing  be, 

"What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 

Of  pyrate  galleys,  warping  down,  — 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne  ; 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee, 
Why  ring  The  Bricks  of  Enderby  ? 

I  looked  without,  and  lo  !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main  ; 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again  : 

"  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !  " 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"The  olde  sea-wall"  (he  cryed)  "is  downe  ! 

The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace  ; 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 

Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place  ! " 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"  God  save  you,  mother  !  "  straight  he  sayth  ; 
"  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  ? " 

"  Good  sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long; 

And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play, 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking-song." 

He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea, 

To  right,  to  left,  Ho,  Enderby  I 

They  rang  The  Brides  of  Enderby. 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For  In  !  along  i  he  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud, — 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis,  backward  pressed, 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  aniaine  ; 
Then  madly  at  tin-  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
14 


Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout,  — 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about,  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast,  the  eygre  drave, 
The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat 

Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 
Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet : 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
"Before  it  brake  against  the  knee,  — 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night  ; 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by  ; 
I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high, — 
A  lurid  mark,  and  dread  to  see  ; 
And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 
That  in  the  dark  rang  Enderby. 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide, 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed  ; 

And  I,  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed  ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  0,  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death ! 

0  lost  !  my  love,  Elizabeth  ! " 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare, 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear  : 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  cbbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea,  — 

A  fatal  cbbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 

To  manyc  more  than  myne  and  mee  ; 

But  each  will  mourne  his  own  (she  sayth) 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

1  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling  ; 

I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"Cusha  !  Cusha!  "  all  along, 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  Iloweth, 

Goeth,  Iloweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
Where  the  water,  winding  down, 
Onward  Iloweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more, 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver, 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river,  — 


■ff 


4=U- 


210 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


-a 


Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling, 

To  the  sandy,  lonesome  shore  ; 

I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 

"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow  ! 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ! 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot !  come  uppe,  Lightfoot ! 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow  ! 
Come  uppe,  Lightfoot  !  rise  and  follow  ; 

Lightfoot  !  Wbitefoot ! 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head  ; 
Come  uppe,  Jetty  !  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed  !  " 

JEAN  INGELOW. 


THE   MERRY   LARK. 

The  merry,  merry  lark  was  up  and  singing, 

And  the  hare  was  out  and  feeding  on  the  lea, 
And  the  merry,  merry  bells  below  were  ringing, 

When  my  child's  laugh  rang  through  me. 
Now  the  hare   is  snared  and  dead  beside   the 
snowyard, 

And  the  lark  beside  the  dreary  winter  sea, 
And  my  baby  in  his  cradle  in  the  churchyard 

Waiteth  there  until  the  bells  bring  me. 

CHARLES  KlNGSLEY. 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

"We  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head 

The  morning-glory  bright ; 
Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath 

So  full  of  life  and  light, 
So  lit  as  with  a  sunrise, 

That  we  could  only  say, 
"  She  is  the  morning-glory  true, 

And  her  poor  types  are  they." 

So  always  from  that  happy  time 

"We  called  her  by  their  name, 
And  very  fitting  did  it  seem,  — 

For  sure  as  morning  came, 
Behind  her  cradle  bars  she  smiled 

To  catch  the  first  faint  ray, 
As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower 

And  opens  to  the  day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear 

Their  airy  cups  of  blue, 
As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light, 

Brimmed  with  sleep's  tender  dew  ; 
And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine 

Round  their  supports  are  thrown, 
As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretched  plea 

Clasped  all  hearts  to  her  own. 


We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come, 

Even  as  conies  the  flower, 
The  last  and  perfect  added  gift 

To  crown  Love's  morning  hour  ; 
And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth 

The  love  we  could  not  say, 
As  on  the  little  dewdrops  round 

Shines  back  the  heart  of  day. 

The  morning-glory's  blossoming 

Will  soon  be  coming  round,  — 
We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves 

Upspringing  from  the  ground  ; 
The  tender  things  the  winter  killed 

Renew  again  their  birth, 
But  the  glory  of  our  morning 

Has  passed  away  from  earth. 

Earth  !  in  vain  our  aching  eyes 

Stretch  over  thy  green  plain  ! 
Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air, 

Her  spirit  to  sustain  ; 
But  up  in  groves  of  Paradise 

Full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful 

Twine  round  our  dear  Lord's  knee. 

Maria  white  Lowell. 


THE  TOMB  OF  CYRUS. 

A  voice  from  stately  Babylon,  a  mourner's  rising 

cry, 
And  Lydia's  marble  palaces  give  back  their  deep 

reply  ; 
And  like  the  sounds  of  distant  winds  o'er  ocean's 

billows  sent, 
Ecbatana,  thy  storied  walls  send  forth  the  wild 

lament. 

For  he,  the  dreaded  arbiter,  a  dawning  empire's 

trust, 
The  eagle  child  of  victory,  the  great,  the  wise,  the 

just, 
Assyria'sfamedandconqueringsword,  and  Media's 

regal  strength, 
Hath  bowed  his  head  to  earth  beneath  a  mightier 

hand  at  length. 

And  darkly  through  a  sorrowing  land  Euphrates 

winds  along, 
And  Cydnus  with  its  silver  wave  hath  heard  the 

funeral  song  ; 
And  through  the  wide  and  sultry  East,  and  through 

the  frozen  North, 
The  tabret  and  the  harp  are  hushed,  —  the  wail  of 

grief  goes  forth. 


m-~ 


.  jj 


<P-»- 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


ft 


211 


There  is  a  solitary  tomb,  with  rankling  weeds  o'er- 
grown, 

A  single  palm  bends  mournfully  beside  the  mould- 
ering stone 

Amidst  whose  leaves  the  passing  breeze  with  fit- 
ful gust  and  slow 

Seems  sighing  forth  a  feeble  dirge  for  him  who 
sleeps  below. 

Beside,  its  sparkling  drops  of  foam  a  desert  foun- 
tain showers  ; 

And,  floating  calm,  the  lotus  wreathes  its  red  and 
scented  flowers, 

Here  lurks  the  mountain  fox  unseen  beside  the 
vulture's  nest ; 

And  steals  the  wild  hyena  forth,' in  lone  and  silent 
quest. 

Is  this  deserted  resting-place  the  couch  of  fallen 
might ? 

And  ends  the  path  of  glory  thus,  and  fame's  in- 
spiring light  ? 

Chief  of  a  progeny  of  kings  renowned  and  feared 
afar, 

How  is  thy  boasted  name  forgot,  and  dimmed  thine 
honor's  star  ! 

Approach,  —  what  saith  the  graven  verse  ?  "Alas 

for  human  pride  ! 
Dominion's   envied   gifts  were  mine,  nor  earth 

her  praise  denied. 
Thou  traveller,  if  a  suppliant's  voice  find  echo  in 

thy  breast, 
0,  envy  not  the  little  dust  that  hides  my  mortal 

rest  •  ANONYMOUS. 


HELVELLYN. 

A  barking  sound  the  shepherd  hears, 
A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox  ; 
He  halts,  and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks  ; 
And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern  ; 
And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen, 
Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  dog  i>  not  of  mountain  breed  ; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy,  — 

With  something,  as  the  shepherd  thinks, 

Unusual  in  its  cry  ; 

Nor  is  there  any  our  in  sight 

All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height ; 

Nor  shout  nor  whistle  strike  his  >'ar. 

What  is  the  creatine  doing  here  ' 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 

That  keeps,  till  June,  1  (ecember's  snow  ; 

A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarn  below  ! 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 


Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 
Pathway,  or  cultivated  land,  — 
From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer  ; 
The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak 
In  symphony  austere  ; 
Thither  the  rainbow  comes,  the  cloud, 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud  ; 
And  sunbeams  ;  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past, 
But  that  enormous  barrier  holds  it  fast. 

Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  awhile 
The  shepherd  stood  ;  then  makes  his  way 
O'er  rocks  and  stones,  following  the  dog 
As  quickly  as  he  may  ; 
Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground. 
The  appalled  discoverer  with  a  sigh 
Looks  round  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 

The  man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear  ! 

At  length  upon  the  shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear. 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came  ; 

Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 

On  which  the  traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake 

This  lamentable  tale  I  tell  ! 

A  lasting  monument  of  words 

This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh, 

Repeating  the  same  timid  cry, 

This  dog  had  been  through  three  months'  space 

A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain,  that,  since  the  day 

When  this  ill-fated  traveller  died, 

The  dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 

Or  by  his  master's  side. 

How  nourished  here  through  such  long  time 

He  knows  who  gave  that  love  sublime, 

Ami  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 

Above  all  human  estimate  ! 

William  wokdswokth. 


HELVELLYN. 

fin  the  spring1  of  1R05  a  young  gentleman  of  talents,  and  of  a  most 
amiable  disposition,  perished  by  lining  his  way  on  the  mountain 
HelveUyn.  His  remains  were  not  discovered  till  three  months  af* 
terwards,  when  they  were  found  guarded  by  a  faithful  terrier,  his 
constant  attendant  during  frequent  solitary  rambles  through  the 
wilds  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.  | 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  ol  tin*  mighty  Helvellyn, 
Lakes  and   mountains  beneath   me  gleamed 

misty  and  wide  ; 


■ff 


212 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


~& 


All  was  still,  save,  by  fits,  when  the  eagle  was 


yelling. 


And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden  Edge  round  the  Red  Tarn 

was  bending, 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 
When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where  the  wan- 
derer had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  raid  the  brown  mountain 
heather, 
Where  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay  stretched  in 
decay, 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandoned  to  weather, 
Till  the  mountain  winds  wasted  the  tenantless 
clay. 
Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended, 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite  attended, 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended, 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was 
slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft 
didst  thou  start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  nights  didst  thou 
number 
Erehefaded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ? 
And,    0,    was  it  meet  that — no  requiem   read 

o'er  him, 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore 

him, 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretched  before 
him  — 
Unhonoredthe  Pilgrim  fromlife  should  depart? 

When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the    Peasant  has 
yielded, 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted 
hall, 

With  'scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall  : 

Through    the    courts,    at    deep   midnight,    the 
torches  are  gleaming ; 

In   the  proudly  arched   chapel  the  banners  are 
beaming  ; 

Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  Stream- 
ill  cr 

Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  People  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature, 
To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain 
lamb, 
When,  wildered,  he   drops  from  some  cliff  huge 
in  stature, 
And   draws    his  last  sob  by   the  side    of  his  | 
dam. 


And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake 

lying, 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying, 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Helvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


CffiTJR   DE  LION   AT   THE   BIER  OF   HIS 
FATHER. 

[The  body  of  Henry  the  Second  lay  in  state  in  the  abbey-tfnurch 
of  Fontevraud,  where  it  was  visited  by  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  who 
on  beholding  it,  was  struck  with  horror  and  remorse,  and  bitterly 
reproached  himself  for  that  rebellions  conduct  which  had  been  the 
means  of  bringing  his  father  to  an  untimely  grave.] 

Torches  were  blazing  clear, 

Hymns  pealing  deep  and  slow, 
Where  a  king  lay  stately  on  his  bier 

In  the  church  of  Fontevraud. 
Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung, 

And  warriors  slept  beneath, 
And  light,  as  noon's  broad  light  was  flung 

On  the  settled  face  of  death. 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare, 
Though  dimmed  at  times  by  the  censer's  breath, 

Yet  it  fell  still  brightest  there  ; 
As  if  each  deeply  furrowed  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show,  — • 
Alas  !  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  closed  in  woe  ! 

The  marble  floor  was  swept 

By  many  a  long  dark  stole, 
As  the  kneeling  priests,  round  him  that  slept, 

Sang  mass  for  the  parted  soul  ; 
And  solemn  were  the  strains  they  poured 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
With  the  cross  above,  and  the  crown  and  sword, 

And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  clang, 

As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread, 
And  the  tombs  and  the  hollow  pavement  rang 

With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread  ; 
And  the  holy  chant  was  hushed  awhile, 

As,  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms  up  the  sweeping  aisle 

With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  haughty  look, 

An  eagle  glance  and  clear  ; 
But  his  proud  heart  through  its  breastplate  shook 

When  he  stood  beside  the  bier  ! 
He  stood  there  still  with  a  drooping  brow, 

And  clasped  hands  o'er  it  raised  ;  — 
For  his  father  lay  before  him  low, 

It  was  Cceur  de  Lion  gazed  ! 


t=t 


£r~ 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


213 


And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  of  his  breast ; 
But  there  's  more  in  late  repentant  love 

Than  steel  may  keep  suppressed  ! 
And  his  tears  brake  forth,  at  last,  like  rain,  — 

Men  held  their  breath  in  awe, 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his  warrior-train, 

And  he  recked  not  that  they  saw. 

He  looked  upon  the  dead, 

And  sorrow  seemed  to  lie, 
A  weight  of  sorrow,  even  like  lead, 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 
He  stooped,  —  and  kissed  the  frozen  cheek, 

And  the  heavy  hand  of  clay, 
Till  bursting  words  —  yet  all  too  weak  — 

Gave  his  soul's  passion  way. 

"  0  father  !  is  it  vain, 

This  late  remorse  and  deep  ? 
Speak  to  me,  father  !  once  again, 

I  weep,  —  behold,  I  weep  ! 
Alas  !  my  guilty  pride  and  ire  ! 

Were  but  this  work  undone, 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  my  sire  ! 

To  hear  thee  bless  thy  son. 

"  Speak  to  me  !  mighty  grief 

Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirred  ! 
Hear  me,  but  hear  me  !  —  father,  chief, 

My  king  !  I  must  be  heard  ! 
Hushed,  hushed,  —  how  is  it  that  I  call, 

And  that  thou  answerest  not  ? 
When  was  it  thus,,  woe,  woe  for  all 

The  love  my  soul  forgot ! 

"  Thy  silver  hairs  I  see, 

So  still,  so  sadly  bright ! 
And  father,  father  !  but  for  me, 

They  had  not  been  so  white  ! 
/bore  thee  down,  high  heart!  at  last, 

No  longer  couldst  thou  strive  ;  — 
0,  for  one  moment  of  the  past 

To  kneel  and  say,  —  '  Forgive  ! ' 

"  Thou  wert  the  noblest  king 

On  royal  throne  ere  seen  ; 
And  thou  didst  wear  in  knightly  ring, 

Of  all,  the  stateliest  mien  ; 
And  thou  didsl  prove,  where  spears  are  proved, 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart,  — 
0,  ever  the  renowned  and  loved 

Thou  wert,  —  and  there  thou  art ! 

"Thou  thai  my  boyl L's  guide 

Didst  take  fund  joy  to  be  !  — 
Tire  times  1  've  sported  at  thy  side, 
And  climbed  thy  parent  knee  ! 


And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine, 
My  sire  !   I  see  thee  lie,  — 

How  will  that  sad  still  face  of  thine 
Look  on  me  till  I  die  !  " 

Felicia  Hemans. 


BERNARDO   DEL   CARPIO. 

[Bernardo  del  Carpio,  a  Spanish  warrior  and  grandee,  having 
made  many  ineffectual  efforts  to  procure  the  release  of  his  father, 
the  Count  Saldana,  declared  war  against  King  Alphonso  of  Astu- 
rias.  Being  successful,  the  king  agreed  to  terms  by  which  he  ren- 
dered up  his  prisoner  to  Bernardo,  in  exchange  for  the  castle  of 
Carpio  and  the  captives  confined  therein.  When  the  warrior 
pressed  forward  to  greet  his  fattier,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
many  years,  he  found  a  corpse  on  horseback.] 


The  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head,  and  tamed 
his  heart  of  fire, 

And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-im- 
prisoned sire : 

"I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress-keys,  I  bring  my 
captive  train, 

I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord  !  0,  break 
my  father's  chain  !  " 

II. 

' '  Rise  !  rise  !  even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ran- 
somed man  this  day  ! 

Mount  thy  good  horse  ;  and  thou  and  I  will  meet 
him  on  his  way. 

Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on 
his  steed, 

And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's 
foamy  speed.    t 

m. 

And,  lo,  from  far,  as  on  they  pressed,  there  came 

a  glittering  band, 
With  one  that  midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader 

in  the  land  : 
"Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste  !  for  there,  in  very 

truth,  is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearned 

so  long  to  see. 

IV. 

His  dark  eye  flashed,  his  proud  breast  heaved, 

his  cheek's  line  came  and  went  ; 
He  reached  that  gray-haired  chieftain's  side,  and 

there,  dismounting,  bent  ; 
A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand 

he  took,  — 
What  was  therein  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit 

shook  ? 

v. 

That   hand    was   cold,  —  a   frozen   thing,  —  it 

dropped  from  his  like;  lead  ! 
He  looked  up  to  the  face  above,  — the  face  was 

of  the  tlead  ! 


CS~ 


~W 


214 


ft 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow,  —  the  brow 

was  fixed  and  white  ; 
He  met,  at  last,  his  father's  eyes,  —  but  in  them 


was  no  sight  ! 


VI. 


Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang  and  gazed  ;  but 
who  could  paint  that  gaze  ? 

They  hushed  their  very  hearts  that  saw  its  hor- 
ror and  amaze  : 

Theymighthaveehainedhim,  as  before  that  stony 
form  he  stood  ; 

For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and 
from  his  lip  the  blood. 

VII. 

"Father  !"    at  length,  he  murmured  low,  and 

wept  like  childhood  then  : 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of 

warlike  men  ! 
He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his 

young  renown  ; 
He  flung  his  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the 

dust  sat  down. 

VIII. 

Then  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his 
darkly  mournful  brow,  — 

"No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "to  lift 
the  sword  for  now  ; 

My  king  is  false,  —  my  hope  betrayed  !  My  fa- 
ther, —  0  the  worth, 

The  glory,  and  the  loveliness  are  passed  away 
from  earth  ! 

IX.. 

"I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my 

sire,  beside  thee,  yet ; 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's 

free  soil  had  met ! 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit,  then  ;  for 

thee  my  fields  were  won  ; 
And  thou  hast  perished  in  thy  chains,  as  though 

thou  hadst  no  son  !  " 


Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he 
seized  the  monarch's  rein, 

Amidst  the  pale  and  wildered  looks  of  all  the 
courtier  train  ; 

And  with  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rear- 
ing war-horse  led, 

And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face,  — the  king  be- 
fore the  dead  : 

XI. 

"  Came  I  not  forth,  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's 

hand  to  kiss  ? 
Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king  !  and  tell 

me  what  is  this  ? 


The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought,  —  give 

answer,  where  are  they  ? 
If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life 

through  this  cold  clay  ; 

XII. 

"Into  these  glassy  eyes  put   light;  —  be  still! 

keep  down  thine  ire  ! 
Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak,  —  this  earth 

is  not  my  sire  : 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  —  for  whom 

my  blood  was  shed. 
Thou  canst    not  ?  —  and  a  king  !  —  his  dust  be 

mountains  on  thy  head  !  " 

XIII. 

He  loosed  the  steed,  —  his  slack  hand  fell ;  upon 

the  silent  face 
He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look,  then  turned 

from  that  sad  place. 
His  hope  was  crushed,  his  after  fate  untold  in 

martial  strain  : 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the 

hiUs  of  Spain.  FELICIA  Hemans. 


THE  CORONATION  OF  INEZ  DE  CASTRO. 

There  was  music  on  the  midnight : 

From  a  royal  fane  it  rolled, 
And  a  mighty  bell,  each  pause  between, 

Sternly  and  slowly  tolled. 
Strange  was  their  mingling  in  the  sky, 

It  hushed  the  listener's  breath  ; 
For  the  music  spoke  of  triumph  high, 

The  lonely  bell,  of  death. 

There  was  hurrying  through  the  midnight, 

A  sound  of  many  feet  ; 
But  they  fell  with  a  muffled  fearfulness 

Along  the  shadowy  street  : 
And  softer,  fainter,  grew  their  tread 

As  it  neared  the  minster  gate, 
"Whence  a  broad  and  solemn  light  was  shed 

From  a  scene  of  royal  state. 

Full  glowed  the  strong  red  radiance 

Tn  the  centre  of  the  nave, 
Where  the  folds  of  a  purple  canopy 

Swept  down  in  many  a  wave  ; 
Loading  the  marble  pavement  old 

"With  a  weight  of  gorgeous  gloom, 
For  something  lay  midst  their  fretted  gold 

Like  a  shadow  of  the  tomb. 

And  within  that  rich  pavilion, 
High  on  a  glittering  throne, 


.^jzi 


BEREAVEMENT  AND   DEATH. 


215 


■a 


A  woman's  form  sat  silently, 

Midst  the  glare  of  light  alone. 
Her  jewelled  robes  fell  strangely  still,  — 

The  drapery  on  her  breast 
Seemed  with  no  pulse  beneath  to  thrill, 

So  stonelike  was  its  rest ! 

But  a  peal  of  lordly  music 

Shook  e'en  the  dust  below, 
When  the  burning  gold  of  the  diadem 

Was  set  on  her  pallid  brow  ! 
Then  died  away  that  haughty  sound, 

And  from  the  encircling  band 
Stepped  prince  and  chief,  midst  the  hush  profound, 

With  homage  to  her  hand. 

Why  passed  a  faint,  cold  shuddering 

Over  each  martial  frame, 
As  one  by  one,  to  touch  that  hand, 

Noble  and  leader  came  ? 
Was  not  the  settled  aspect  fair  ? 

Did  not  a  queenly  grace, 
Under  the  parted  ebon  hair, 

Sit  on  the  pale  still  face  ? 

Death  !  death  !  canst  thou  be  lovely 

Unto  the  eye  of  life  ? 
Is  not  each  pulse  of  the  quick  high  breast 

With  thy  cold  mien  at  strife  ? 
—  It  was  a  strange  and  fearful  sight, 

The  crown  upon  that  head, 
The  glorious  robes,  and  the  blaze  of  light, 

All  gathered  round  the  Dead  ! 

And  beside  her  stood  in  silence 

One  with  a  brow  as  pale, 
And  white  lips  rigidly  compressed, 

Lest  the  strong  heart  should  fail  : 
King  Pedro,  witli  a  jealous  eye, 

Watching  the  homage  done, 
By  the  land's  flower  and  chivalry, 

To  her,  his  martyred  one. 

Hut  mi  the  face  he  looked  not, 

Which  once  his  star  had  been  ; 
To  every  form  his  glance  was  turned, 

Save  of  the  breathless  quern  ; 

Though  something,  won  from  t  he  grave's  embrace, 

<  If  her  beauty  still  was  there, 
Its  lines  were  all  of  that  shadowy  place, 

It  was  not  for  him  to  hear. 

Alas!  the  crown,  the  sceptre, 

The  treasures  of  the  earth, 

And  the  priceless  love  that  poured  those  gifts, 

Alike  of  wasted  worth  ! 
Tin'  lites  are  rinsed  ;    -bear  back  the  dead 

Unto  the  chamber  deep  ! 


Lay  down  again  the  royal  head, 
Dust  with  the  dust  to  sleep  ! 

There  is  music  on  the  midnight,  — 

A  requiem  sad  and  slow, 
As  the  mourners  through  the  sounding  aisle 

In  dark  procession  go  ; 
And  the  ring  of  state,  and  the  starry  crown, 

And  all  the  rich  array, 
Are  borne  to  the  house  of  silence  down, 

With  her,  that  queen  of  clay. 

And  fearlessly  and  firmly 

King  Pedro  led  the  train  ; 
But  his  face  was  wrapt  in  his  folding  robe, 

When  they  lowered  the  dust  again. 
'T  is  hushed  at  last  the  tomb  above,v 

Hymns  die,  and  steps  depart  : 
Who  called  thee  strong  as  Death,  0  Love? 

Mightier  thou  wast  and  art. 

Felicia  hemans. 


INDIAN   DEATH-SONG. 

The  sun  sets  in  night,  and  the  stars  shun  the  day; 
But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade  away. 
Begin,  you  tormentors  !  your  threats  are  in  vain, 
For  the  sons  of  Alknomook  will  never  complain. 

Remember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow  ; 
Remember  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid  low  ! 
Why  so  slow  ?  do  you  wait  till  I  shrink  from  the 

pain  ? 
No  !  the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  complain. 

Remember  the  wood  where  in  ambush  we  lay, 
And  the  scalps  which  we  bore  from  your  nation 

away. 
Now  the  flame  rises  fast,  you  exult  in  my  pain  ; 
But  the  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  complain. 

I  go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone  ; 

His  ghost  shall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son. 

Death  comes,  like  a  friend,  to  relieve  me  from 
pain ; 

And  thy  son,  0  Alknomook  !  has  scorned  to  com- 
plain. PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


THE   FEMALE   CONVICT. 

She  shrank  from  all,  and  her  silent  mood 
Made  her  wish  only  for  solitude  : 
Her  eye  sought  the  ground,  as  i'.  could  not  brook, 
For  innermost  shame,  on  another's  to  look  •, 
And  the  cheerings  of  comfort  fell  on  her  ear 
Like  deadliest  words,  that  were  curses  to  hear  !  — 


W 


a- 


21G 


POEMS   OF   THE   AFFECTIONS. 


HS 


She  still  was  young,  and  she  had  been  fair  ; 
But  weather-stains,  hunger,  toil,  and  care, 
That  frost  and  fever  that  wear  the  heart, 
Had  made  the  colors  of  youth  depart 
From  the  sallow  cheek,  save  over  it  came 
The  burning  flush  of  the  spirit's  shame. 

They  were  sailing  o'er  the  salt  sea-foam, 
Far  from  her  country,  far  from  her  home  ; 
And  all  she  had  left  for  her  friends  to  keep 
Was  a  name  to  hide  and  a  memory  to  weep  ! 
And  her  future  held  forth  but  the  felon's  lot,  — 
To  live  forsaken,  to  die  forgot  ! 
She  could  not  weep,  and  she  could  not  pray, 
But  she  wasted  and  withered  from  day  to  day, 
Till  you  might  have  counted  each  sunken  vein, 
When  her  wrist  was  prest  by  the  iron  chain  ; 
And  sometimes  I  thought  her  large  dark  eye 
Had  the  glisten  of  red  insanity. 

She  called  me  once  to  her  sleeping-place, 

A  strange,  wild  look  was  upon  her  face, 

Her  eye  flashed  over  her  cheek  so  white, 

Like  a  gravestone  seen  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

And  she  spoke  in  a  low,  unearthly  tone,  — 

The  sound  from  mine  ear  hath  never  gone  !  — 

"  I  had  last  night  the  loveliest  dream  : 

My  own  land  shone  in  the  summer  beam, 

I  saw  the  fields  of  the  golden  grain, 

I  heard  the  reaper's  harvest  strain  ; 

There  stood  on  the  hills  the  green  pine-tree, 

And  the  thrush  and  the  lark  sang  merrily. 

A  long  and  a  weary  way  I  had  come  ; 

ButIstopped,methought,bymineownsweethome. 

I  stood  by  the  hearth,  and  my  father  sat  there, 

With  pale,  thin  face,  and  snow-white  hair  ! 

The  Bible  lay  open  upon  his  knee, 

But  he  closed  the  book  to  welcome  me. 

He  led  me  next  where  my  mother  lay, 

And  together  we  knelt  by  her  grave  to  pray, 

And  heard  a  hymn  it  was  heaven  to  hear, 

For  it  echoed  one  to  my  young  days  dear. 

This  dream  has  wak  ed  feelings  long,  long  since  fled, 

And  hopes  which  I  deemed  in  my  heart  were  dead  ! 

—  We  have  not  spoken,  but  still  I  have  hung 

On  the  Northern  accents  that  dwell  on  thy  tongue. 

To  me  they  are  music,  to  me  they  recall 

The  tilings  long  hidden  by  Memory's  pall  ! 

Take  this  long  curl  of  yellow  hair, 

And  give  it  my  father,  and  tell  him  my  prayer, 

My  dying  prayer,  was  for  him."  .... 

Next  day 
Upon  the  deck  a  coffin  lay  ; 
They  raised  it  up,  and  like  a  dirge 
The  heavy  gale  swept  o'er  the  surge  ; 
The  coqise  was  cast  to  the  wind  and  wave,  — 
The  convict  has  found  in  the  green  sea  a  grave. 

LATITIA   K.   LANDON. 


GRIEF. 

FROM    "  HAMLET,    PRINCE   OF    DENMARK." 

Queen.   Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nighted  color 
off, 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 
Do  not,  forever,  with  thy  veiled  lids 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust  : 
Thou  know'st  't  is  common,  —  all  that  live  must 

die, 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 

Hamlet.  Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 

Queen.  if  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  with  thee  ? 

Ham.  Seems,  madam  !  nay,  it  is  ;  I  know  not 
seems. 
'T  is  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forced  breath, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye, 
Nor  the  dejected  havior  of  the  visage, 
Together  with  all  forms,  modes,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly  :  these,  indeed,  seem, 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play  : 
But  1  have  that  within,  which  passeth  show  ; 
These,  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


SOLILOQUY   ON   DEATH. 

FROM    "HAMLET,    PRINCE   OF   DENMARK." 

Hamlet.    To  be,   or  not  to  be,  —  that  is  the 

question  :  — 
Whether  't  is  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And,    by  opposing,  end  them  ?  —  To  die,  —  to 

sleep  ;  — 
No  more  ;  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  —  't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die, — to  sleep  ;  — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream  :  —  ay,  there  's  the 

rub  ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause  :  there  's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  ; 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man'scontumely, 
The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death,  — 


■ff 


a- 


BEREAVEMENT   AND   DEATH. 


217 


That  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  —  puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  hear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of  ? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


THE   HUSBAND   AND   WIFE'S   GRAVE. 

Husband  and  wife  !  no  converse  now  ye  hold, 
As  once  ye  did  in  your  young  days  of  love, 
On  its  alarms,  its  anxious  hours,  delays, 
Its  silent  meditations  and  glad  hopes, 
Its  fears,  impatience,  quiet  sympathies  ; 
Nor  do  ye  speak  of  joy  assured,  and  bliss 
Full,  certain,  and  possessed.     Domestic  cares 
Call  you  not  now  together.     Earnest  talk 
On  what  your  children  may  be  moves  you  not. 
Ye  lie  in  silence,  and  an  awful  silence  ; 
Not  like  to  that  in  which  ye  rested  once 
Most  happy,  —  silence  eloquent,  when  heart 
With  heart  held  speech,   and  your  mysterious 

frames. 
Harmonious,  sensitive,  at  every  beat 
Touched  the  soft  notes  of  love. 

A  stillness  deep, 
Insensible,  unheeding,  folds  you  round, 
And  darkness,  as  a  stone,  has  sealed  you  in  ; 
Away  from  all  the  living,  here  ye  rest, 
hi  all  the  nearness  of  the  narrow  tomb, 
Yet  feel  ye  not  each  other's  presence  now  ;  — 
Dread  fellowship  !  —  together,  yet  alone. 

Is  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then,  Love? 
And  doth  death  cancel  the  great  bond  that  holds 
Commingling  spirits?  Are  thoughts  that  know  no 

bounds, 
But,  self-inspired,  rise  upward,  searching  out 
The  Eternal  Mind,  the  Father  of  all  thought,  — 
Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb  ?  — 
Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  the  Illuminate  realms 
Of  uncreated  li;,rht  have  visited  and  lived?  — 
Lived  in  the  dreadful  splendor  of  that  throne 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand  t  lie  veil  of  flesh 
Lifting  that  hung  'twixt  man  and  it,  revealed 
In  glory  ?  —  throne  before  which  even  now 
Our  souls,  moved  1  > v  prophetic  power,  bow  down 
Rejoicing,  ye1  al  their  own  natures  awed  < — • 
Souls  that  thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 
Thou  awful  unseen  Presence,  — are  they  quenched? 
Or  burn  they  on,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  thai  bright  day  which  ends  not,  as  the  sun 
His  robe  of  lighl  flings  round  the  glittering  stars  > 


And  do  our  loves  all  perish  with  our  frames  ? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root  and  put  forth  buds, 
And  then  soft  leaves  unfolded  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty, 
Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair,  unconscious  flowers  ? 
Are  thoughts  and  passions  that  to  the  tongue  give 

speech, 
And  make  it  set  forth  winning  harmonies, 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow, 
And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 
With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance,  — 
Are  these  the  body's  accidents,  no  more  ? 
To  live  in  it,  and  when  that  dies  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  taper's  flame  ? 

0  listen,  man  ! 
A  voice  within  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !  "  celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  around  our  souls  ;  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality  ; 
Thick-clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

0  listen,  ye,  our  spirits  !  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air  !    'T  is  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 
Is  floating  in  day's  setting  glories  ;  Night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears  ;  — 
Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 
As  one  great  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 
By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 
The  dying  hear  it ;  and,  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

Why  is  it  that  I  linger  round  this  tomb  ? 
What  holds  it  ?     Dust  that  cumbered    those  I 

mourn. 
They  shook  it  off,  and  laid  aside  earth's  robes, 
Ami  put  Oil  those  of  light.   They're  gone  to  dwell 
In  love,  —  their  God's  and  angels'  ?  Mutual  love, 
That  bound  them  here,  no  longer  needs  a  sjH'ech 
For  full  communion  ;  nor  sensations  strong, 
Within  the  breast,  their  prison,  strive  in  vain 
To  be  set  free,  and  meet  their  kind  in  joy. 
Changed  to  celestials,  thoughts  that  rise  in  each 
By  natures  new  impart  themselves,  though  silent. 
Each  quickening  sense,  each  throb  of  holy  love, 
A  Meet  ions  sanctified,  and  the  full  glow 
Of  being,  which  expand  and  gladden  one, 
By  union  all  mysterious,  thrill  and  live 
In  both  immortal  frames  ;   —sensation  all, 
And    thought,   pervading,    mingling   sense  and 

thought  ! 
Ye  paired,  yet  one  !  wrapt  in  a  consciousness 
Twofold,  yet.  single,  — this  is  love,  this  life  I 


10- 


tf 


218 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


^ 


Why  call  we,  then,  the  square-built  monument, 
The  upright  column,  and  the  low-laid  slab 
Tokens  of  death,  memorials  of  decay  ? 
Stand  in  this  solemn,  still  assembly,  man, 
And  learn  thy  proper  nature  ;  for  thou  seest 
In  these  shaped  stones  and  lettered  tables  figures 
Of  life.     Then  be  they  to  thy  soul  as  those 
"Which  he  who  talked  on  Sinai's  mount  with  God 
Brought  to  the  old  Judeans  ;  —  types  are  these 
Of  thine  eternity. 

I  thank  thee,  Father, 
That  at  this  simple  grave  on  which  the  dawn 
Is  breaking,  emblem  of  that  day  which  hath 
No  close,  thou  kindly  unto  my  dark  mind 
Hast  sent  a  sacred  light,  and  that  away 
From  this  green  hillock,  whither  I  had  come 
In  sorrow,  thou  art  leading  me  in  joy. 

RICHARD  HENRY  DANA. 


DE   PROFUNDIS. 


The  face  which,  duly  as  the  sun, 
Eose  up  for  me  with  life  begun, 
To  mark  all  bright  hours  of  the  day 
With  hourly  love,  is  dimmed  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

II. 

The  tongue  which,  like  a  stream,  could  run 
Smooth  music  from  the  roughest  stone, 
And  every  morning  with  "  Good  day" 
Make  each  day  good,  is  hushed  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

in. 
The  heart  which,  like  a  staff,  was  one 
For  mine  to  lean  and  rest  upon, 
The  strongest  on  the  longest  day 
With  steadfast  love,  is  caught  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

IV. 

And  cold  before  my  summer  's  done, 
And  deaf  in  Nature's  general  tune, 
Ami  fallen  too  low  for  special  fear, 
And  here,  with  hope  no  longer  here,  — 
While  the  tears  drop,  my  days  go  on. 

v. 

The  world  goes  whispering  to  its  own, 
"This  anguish  pierces  to  the  bone  "  ; 
And  tender  friends  go  sighing  round, 
"  What  love  can  ever  cure  this  wound  ?  " 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 

VI. 

The  past  rolls  forward  on  the  sun 

And  makes  all  night.     0  dreams  begun, 


Not  to  be  ended  !     Ended  bliss, 
And  life  that  will  not  end  in  this  ! 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 

VII. 

Breath  freezes  on  my  lips  to  moan  : 
As  one  alone,  once  not  alone, 
I  sit  and  knock  at  Nature's  door, 
Heart-bare,  heart-hungry,  very  poor, 
Whose  desolated  days  go  on. 

vm. 

I  knock  and  cry,  —  Undone,  undone  ! 
Is  there  no  help,  no  comfort,  —  none  ? 
No  gleaning  in  the  wide  wheat-plains 
Where  others  drive  their  loaded  wains  ? 
My  vacant  days  go  on,  go  on. 

IX. 

This  Nature,  though  the  snows  be  down, 
Thinks  kindly  of  the  bird  of  June  : 
The  little  red  hip  on  the  tree 
Is  ripe  for  such.     What  is  for  me, 
Whose  days  so  winterly  go  on  ? 

x. 

No  bird  am  I,  to  sing  in  June, 
And  dare  not  ask  an  equal  boon. 
Good  nests  and  berries  red  are  Nature's 
To  give  away  to  better  creatures,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

XI. 

2"  ask  less  kindness  to  be  done,  — 
Only  to  loose  these  pilgriin-shoon, 
(Too  early  worn  and  grimed)  with  sweet 
Cool  deathly  touch  to  these  tired  feet, 
Till  days  go  out  which  now  go  on. 

xiv. 

From  gracious  Nature  have  I  won 
Such  liberal  bounty  ?  may  I  run 
So,  lizard-like,  within  her  side, 
And  there  be  safe,  who  now  am  tried 
By  days  that  painfully  go  on  ? 

xv. 

—  A  Voice  reproves  me  thereupon, 
More  sweet  than  Nature's  when  the  drone 
Of  bees  is  sweetest,  and  more  deep 
Than  when  the  rivers  overleap 
The  shuddering  pines,  and  thunder  on. 

xvi. 
God's  Voice,  not  Nature's.     Night  and  noon 
He  sits  upon  the  great  white  throne 
And  listens  for  the  creatures'  praise. 
What  babble  we  of  clays  and  days  ? 
The  Day-spring  he,  whose  days  go  on. 


-ff 


BEREAVEMENT  AND   DEATH. 


219 


ft 


XVII. 

He  reigns  above,  he  reigns  alone  ; 
Systems  burn  out  and  leave  his  throne  : 
Fair  mists  of  seraphs  melt  and  fall 
Around  him,  changeless  amid  all,  — 
Ancient  of  Days,  whose  days  go  on. 

XVIII. 

He  reigns  below,  he  reigns  alone, 
And,  having  life  in  love  foregone 
Beneath  the  crown  of  sovran  thorns, 
He  reigns  the  jealous  God.     Who  mourns 
Or  rules  with  him,  while  days  go  on  ? 

XIX. 

By  anguish  which  made  pale  the  sun, 
I  hear  him  charge  his  saints  that  none 
Among  his  creatures  anywhere 
Blaspheme  against  him  with  despair, 
However  darkly  days  go  on. 

XX. 

Take  from  my  head  the  thorn-wreath  brown  ! 
No  mortal  grief  deserves  that  crown. 

0  supreme  Love,  chief  Misery, 
The  sharp  regalia  are  for  Thee 
Whose  days  eternally  go  on  ! 

XXI. 

For  us,  — whatever  's  undergone, 
Thou  knowest,  wiliest  what  is  done. 
Grief  may  be  joy  misunderstood  ; 
Only  the  Good  discerns  the  good, 

1  trust  thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

XXII. 

Whatever  *s  lost,  it  first  was  won  : 

We  will  not  struggle  nor  impugn. 

Perhaps  the  cup  was  broken  here, 

That  Heaven's  new  wine  might  show  more  clear. 

I  praise  thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

XXIII. 

I  praise  thee  while  my  days  go  on  ; 

I  love  thee  while  my  days  go  on  ; 

Through  dark  and  dearth,  through  fire  and  frost, 

With  emptied  arms  and  treasure  lost, 

]  thank  thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN   IN  A   COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day  ; 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering 
heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built 
shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy 
stroke  ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour  ; 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 
vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  Mattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  lire  ; 

Hands  thai  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  ; 

Bui  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll  ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 


&- 


a- 


220 


POEMS   OF   THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear  ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some   village    Hampden,    that,    with  dauntless 
breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  con- 
fined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 
decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered 
muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate  ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say  :  — 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove  ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,   or  crossed  in  hopeless 
love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  ; 

Another  came,  —  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he  ; 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne  ;  — 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE   EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 

Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere  ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  ; 
He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  heaven  ('t  was  all  he  wished)  a 
friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode,  — 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray. 


t~ 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  ADVERSITY. 


^ 


RETROSPECTION. 


FROM        THE    PRINCESS. 


Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under  world  ; 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge,  — 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square  ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret,  — 
0  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


TWO   WOMEN. 

Titf.  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 

'T  was  near  the  twilight-tide, 
Ami  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Alone  walked  she  ;  lmt,  viewlessly, 

Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charmed  the  air  ; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 

And  called  her  good  as  fair, — 
For  a.]]  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 


She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true, 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo,  — 
But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair,  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail,  — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray  ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  !  — 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway  ! 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


THE   DREAMER. 

FROM    "  POEMS    BY    A    SEAMSTRESS." 

Not  in  the  laughing  bowers, 
Where  by  green  swinging  elms  a  pleasant  shade 
At  summer's  noon  is  made, 

And  where  swift-footed  hours 
Steal  the  rich  breath  of  enamored  flowers, 
Dream  I.      Nor  where  the  golden  glories  be, 
At  sunset,  laving  o'er  the  (lowing  sea  ; 
And  to  pure  eyes  the  faculty  is  given 
To  trace  a  smooth  ascent  from  Earth  to  Heaven  ! 

Not  on  a  couch  of  ease, 
With  all  the  appliances  of  joy  at  hand,  ■ 
Soft  li^ht,  sweet  fragrance,  beauty  at  command  r 
Viands  that  might  a  godlike  palate  please, 
And  music's  soul-creative  ecstasies, 
Dream  I.     Nor  gloating  o'er  a  wide  estate, 
Till  the  full,  self-complacenl  heart  elate, 
Well  satisfied  with  bliss  of  mortal  birth, 
Sighs  for  an  immortality  on  Earth  ! 


[B- 


tf 


224 


POEMS   OF   SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


-a 


But  where  the  incessant  din 
Of  iron  hands,  and  roars  of  brazen  throats, 
Join  their  unmingled  notes, 

"While  the  long  summer  day  is  pouring  in, 
Till  day  is  gone,  and  darkness  doth  begin, 
Dream  I,  — as  in  the  corner  where  I  lie, 
On  wintry  nights,  just  covered  from  the  sky  !  — 
Such  is  my  fate,  —  and,  barren  though  it  seem, 
Yet,  thou  blind,  soulless  scorner,  yet  1  dream  ! 

And  yet  I  dream,  — 
Dream  what,  were  men  more  j  ust,  I  might  have  been, 
How  strong,  how  fair,  how  kindly  and  serene, 
Glowing  of  heart,  and  glorious  of  mien  ; 
The  conscious  crown  to  Nature's  blissful  scene, 
In  just  and  equal  brotherhood  to  glean, 
With  all  mankind,  exhaustless  pleasure  keen,  — 

Such  is  my  dream  ! 

And  yet  I  dream,  — 

I,  the  despised  of  fortune,  lift  mine  eyes, 
Bright  with  the  lustre  of  integrity, 

In  unappealing  wretchedness,  on  high, 

And  the  last  rage  of  Destiny  defy  ; 

Resolved  alone  to  live,  —  alone  to  die, 
Nor  swell  the  tide  of  human  misery  ! 

And  yet  I  dream,  — 
Dream  of  a  sleep  where  dreams  no  more  shall  come, 
My  last,  my  first,  my  only  welcome  home  ! 
Rest,  unbeheld  since  Life's  beginning  stage, 
Sole  remnant  of  my  glorious  heritage, 
Unalienable,  I  shall  find  thee  yet, 
And  in  thy  soft  embrace  the  past  forget. 

Thus  do  I  dream  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


MOAN,    MOAN,   YE  DYING   GALES. 

Moan,  moan,  ye  dying  gales  ! 
The  saddest  of  your  tales 

Is  not  so  sad  as  life  ; 
Nor  have  you  e'er  began 
A  theme  so  wild  as  man, 

Or  with  such  sorrow  rife. 

Fall,  fall,  thou  withered  leaf ! 
Autumn  sears  not  like  grief, 

Nor  kills  such  lovely  flowers  ; 
More  terrible  the  storm, 
More  mournful  the  deform, 

When  dark  misfortune  lowers. 

Hush  !  hush  !  thou  trembling  lyre, 
Silence,  ye  vocal  choir, 

And  thou,  mellifluous  lute, 
For  man  soon  breathes  his  last, 
And  all  his  hope  is  past, 

And  all  his  music  mute. 


Then,  when  the  gale  is  sighing, 

And  when  the  leaves  are  dying, 

And  when  the  song  is  o'er, 

0,  let  us  think  of  those 

Whose  lives  are  lost  in  woes, 

Whose  cup  of  grief  runs  o'er. 

Henry  Neele. 


HENCE,  ALL    YE    VAIN  DELIGHTS. 

Hence,  all  ye  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 
Wherein  you  spend  your  folly  ! 
There  's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see  't, 

But  only  melancholy, 

0,  sweetest  melancholy  ! 

Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that 's  fastened  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound  ! 

Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves, 

Places  which  pale  passion  loves  ! 

Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 

Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls  ! 

A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan  ! 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon. 

Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley  ; 

Nothing'sso  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


BLOW,    BLOW,    THOU   WINTER  WIND. 


FROM        AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho  !  sing  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Mostfriendshipisfeigning,  most lovingmere folly  : 
Then,  heigh-ho  !  the  holly  ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly  ! 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh-ho  !  sing  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  isfeigning,  most  lovingmerefolly: 
Then,  heigh-ho  !  the  holly  ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly  ! 


SHAKESPEARE. 


&~ 


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POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


225 


-a 


A   LAMENT. 

0  world  !  0  Life  !  0  Time  ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before  ; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more,  —  0  nevermore  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight : 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more,  —  0  nevermore  ! 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLEY. 


SPRING   IT   IS   CHEERY. 

Spring  it  is  cheery, 

Winter  is  dreary, 
Green  leaves  hang,  but  the  brown  must  fly  ; 

When  he  's  forsaken, 

Withered  and  shaken, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Love  will  not  clip  him, 

Maids  will  not  lip  him, 
Maud  and  Marian  pass  him  by  ; 

Youth  it  is  sunny, 

Age  has  no  honey,  — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

June  it  was  jolly, 

0  for  its  folly  ! 
A  dancing  leg  and  a  laughing  eye  ! 

Youth  may  be  silly, 

Wisdom  is  chilly,  — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Friends  they  are  scanty, 

Beggars  are  plenty, 

If  he  has  followers,  I  know  why  ; 

Gold  's  in  his  clutches, 

(Buying  liim  crutches  ! )  — 

What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Thomas  Hood. 


WHEN   SHALL  WE  ALL  MEET  AGAIN? 

Wiikn  sliiill  we  all  meet  again  ? 
When  shall  we  all  meel  again! 
Ofl  shall  glowing  hope  expire, 

Olt  shall  wearied  love  retire, 
Ofl  shall  death  and  sorrow  reign, 
Ere  we  all  shall  meet  again. 

Though  in  distant  lands  we  sigh, 
Parched  beneath  a  hostile  sky ; 


Though  the  deep  between  us  rolls, 
Friendship  shall  unite  our  souls. 
Still  in  Fancy's  rich  domain 
Oft  shall  we  all  meet  again. 

When  the  dreams  of  life  are  fled, 
When  its  wasted  lamps  are  dead  ; 
When  in  cold  oblivion's  shade, 
Beauty,  power,  and  fame  are  laid  ; 
Where  immortal  spirits  reign, 
There  shall  we  all  meet  again. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   LAST   LEAF. 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door  ; 

And  again 
The  pavement-stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

So  forlorn  ; 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 

In  their  bloom  ; 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady  !  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 
That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  stall  ; 
And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  ami  grin 
At  him  here, 


a- 


15 


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a- 


226 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


ft 


But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  —  and  all  that, 
Are  so  queer  ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 
Let  thein  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 


"Where  I  cling. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE   APPROACH   OF   AGE. 


TALES   OF   THE    HALL. 


Six  years  had  passed,  and  forty  ere  the  six, 
"When  Time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks  : 
The  locks  once  comely  in  a  virgin's  sight, 
Locks  of  pure  brown,  displayed  the  encroaching 

white  ; 
The  blood,  once  fervid,  now  to  cool  began, 
And  Time's  strong  pressure  to  subdue  the  man. 
I  rode  or  walked  as  I  was  wont  before, 
But  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more  ; 
A  moderate  pace  would  now  my  body  heat, 
A  walk  of  moderate  length  distress  my  feet. 
I  showed  my  stranger  guest  those  hills  sublime, 
But  said,  "  The  view  is  poor,  we  need  not  climb." 
At  a  friend's  mansion  I  began  to  dread 
The  cold  neat  parlor  and  the  gay  glazed  bed ; 
At  home  I  felt  a  more  decided  taste, 
And  must  have  all  things  in  my  order  placed. 
I  ceased  to  hunt ;  my  horses  pleased  me  less,  — 
My  dinner  more  ;  I  learned  to  play  at  chess. 
I  took  my  dog  and  gun,  but  saw  the  brute 
"Was  disappointed  that  I  did  not  shoot. 
My  morning  walks  I  now  could  bear  to  lose, 
And  blessed  the  shower  that  gave  me  not  to 

choose. 

In  fact,  I  felt  a  languor  stealing  on  ; 

The  active  arm,  the  agile  hand,  were  gone  ; 

Small  daily  actions  into  habits  grew, 

And  new  dislike  to  forms  and  fashions  new. 

I  loved  my  trees  in  order  to  dispose  ; 

I  numbered  peaches,  looked  how  stocks  arose  ; 

Told  the  same  story  oft,  — in  short,  began  to  prose. 

George  Crabbe. 


TOMMY'S  DEAD. 

You  may  give  over  plough,  boys, 
You  may  take  the  gear  to  the  stead, 
All  the  sweat  o'  your  brow,  boys, 
Will  never  get  beer  and  bread. 
The  seed 's  waste,  I  know,  boys, 


There  's  not  a  blade  will  grow,  boys, 
'T  is  cropped  out,  I  trow,  boys, 
And  Tommy  's  dead. 

Send  the  colt  to  fair,  boys, 

He 's  going  blind,  as  I  said, 

My  old  eyes  can't  bear,  boys, 

To  see  him  in  the  shed ; 

The  cow  's  dry  and  spare,  boys, 

She  's  neither  here  nor  there,  boys, 

I  doubt  she  's  badly  bred  ; 

Stop  the  mill  to-morn,  boys, 

There  '11  be  no  more  corn,  boys, 

Neither  white  nor  red  ; 

There  's  no  sign  of  grass,  boys, 

You  may  sell  the  goat  and  the  ass,  boys, 

The  land 's  not  what  it  was,  boys, 

And  the  beasts  must  be  fed  : 

You  may  turn  Peg  away,  boys, 

You  may  pay  off  old  Ned, 

We  've  had  a  dull  day,  boys, 

And  Tommy 's  dead. 

Move  my  chair  on  the  floor,  boys, 

Let  me  turn  my  head  : 

She  's  standing  there  in  the  door,  boys, 

Your  sister  Winifred  ! 

Take  her  away  from  me,  boys, 

Your  sister  Winifred ! 

Move  me  round  in  my  place,  boys, 

Let  me  turn  my  head, 

Take  her  away  from  me,  hoys, 

As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed, 

The  bones  of  her  thin  face,  boys, 

As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed  ! 

I  don't  know  how  it  be,  boys, 

When  all 's  done  and  said, 

But  I  see  her  looking  at  me,  boys, 

Wherever  I  turn  my  head  ; 

Out  of  the  big  oak  tree,  boys, 

Out  of  the  garden-bed, 

And  the  lily  as  pale  as  she,  boys, 

And  the  rose  that  used  to  be  red. 

There  's  something  not  right,  boys, 

But  I  think  it 's  not  in  my  head, 

I  've  kept  my  precious  sight,  boys,  — 

The  Lord  be  hallowed  ! 

Outside  and  in 

The  ground  is  cold  to  my  tread, 

The  hills  are  wizen  and  thin, 

The  sky  is  shrivelled  and  shred, 

The  hedges  down  by  the  loan 

I  can  count  them  bone  by  bone, 

The  leaves  are  open  and  spread, 

But  I  see  the  teeth  of  the  land, 

And  hands  like  a  dead  man's  hand, 

And  the  eyes  of  a  dead  man's  head. 


■ff 


ft 


POEMS   OF   SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


097 


•a 


There 's  nothing  but  cinders  and  sand, 
The  rat  and  the  mouse  have  fed, 
And  the  summer  's  empty  and  cold ; 
Over  valley  and  wold 
Wherever  I  turn  my  head 
There 's  a  mildew  and  a  mould, 
The  sun 's  going  out  overhead, 
And  I  'm  very  old, 
And  Tommy 's  dead. 

What  am  I  staying  for,  boys, 
You  're  all  born  and  bred, 
'T  is  fifty  years  and  more,  boys, 
Since  wife  and  I  were  wed, 
And  she  's  gone  before,  boys, 
And  Tommy 's  dead. 

She  was  always  sweet,  boys, 

Upon  his  curly  head, 

She  knew  she  'd  never  see 't,  boys, 

And  she  stole  off  to  bed  ; 

I  've  been  sitting  up  alone,  boys, 

For  he  'd  come  home,  he  said, 

But  it 's  time  I  was  gone,  boys, 

For  Tommy  's  dead. 

Put  the  shutters  up,  boys, 

Bring  out  the  beer  and  bread, 

Make  haste  and  sup,  boys, 

For  my  eyes  are  heavy  as  lead  ; 

There 's  something  wrong  i'  the  cup,  boys, 

There  's  something  ill  wi'  the  bread, 

I  don't  care  to  sup,  boys, 

And  Tommy  's  dead. 

I  'm  not  right,  I  doubt,  boys, 
I  've  such  a  sleepy  head, 
I  shall  nevermore  be  stout,  boys, 
You  may  carry  me  to  bed. 
What  are  you  about,  boys  ? 
The  prayers  are  all  said, 
The  fire  's  raked  out,  boys, 
And  Tommy 's  dead. 

The  stairs  are  too  steep,  boys, 
You  may  carry  me  to  the  head, 
The  night  'a  dark  and  deep,  boys, 
Your  mother  \s  long  in  bed, 
'T  is  time  to  go  to  sleep,  boys, 
And  Tommy  's  dead. 

I  'm  not  used  to  kiss,  boys, 

You  may  shake  my  hand  instead. 

All  things  go  amiss,  boys, 

Yon  may  lay  me  where  she  is,  boys, 

Aii'l  I  '11  real  my  old  head  : 

'T  is  a  poor  world,  this,  boys, 

And  Tommy  's  dead. 

SlDNBY  DOBELL. 


OFT  IN   THE   STILLY   NIGHT. 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  : 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken  ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimmed  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  linked  together 
I  've  seen  around  me  fall 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

Thomas  Moore. 


ROSALIE. 

0,  pour  upon  my  soul  again 
That  sad,  unearthly  strain 

That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain  ! 

Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar, 

As  if  some  melancholy  star 

Had  mingled  with  her  light  her  sighs, 
And  dropped  them  from  the  skies. 

No,  never  came  from  aught  below 

This  melody  of  woe, 
That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow, 
As  from  a  thousand  gushing  springs 
Unknown  before  ;  that  with  it  brings 


This  nameless  light- 


if  light  it  be  — 


That  veils  the  world  I  see. 

For  all  I  see  around  me  wears 
The  hue  of  other  spheres  ; 
And  something  blent  of  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I  breathe. 
0,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath, 
Can  mould  a  Badness  like  to  this,  — 
So  like  angwlic  bliss  ! 


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228 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


•a 


So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day, 
When  the  last  lingering  ray 

Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play,  — 

So  thought  the  gentle  Rosalie 

As  on  her  maiden  revery 

First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 
In  music  to  her  soul. 

Washington  allston. 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining  ; 

Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 

Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 

Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  he  dark  and  dreary. 

Henry  wadsworth  Longfellow. 

»— 


BLIGHTED   LOVE. 

Flowers  are  fresh,  and  hushes  green, 

Cheerily  the  linnets  sing  ; 
Winds  are  soft,  and  skies  serene ; 

Time,  however,  soon  shall  throw 
Winter's  snow 
O'er  the  buxom  breast  of  Spring  ! 

Hope,  that  buds  in  lover's  heart, 

Lives  not  through  the  scorn  of  years  ; 

Time  makes  love  itself  depart ; 

Time  and  scorn  congeal  the  mind,  — 
Looks  unkind 

Freeze  affection's  warmest  tears. 

Time  shall  make  the  bushes  green  ; 

Time  dissolve  the  winter  snow  ; 
Winds  be  soft,  and  skies  serene  ; 

Linnets  sing  their  wonted  strain. 
But  again 
Blighted  love  shall  never  blow  ! 

LUIS  DE  Camoens  (Portuguese).    Translation 
of  LORD  STRANGFORD. 


THOSE   EVENING   BELLS. 

Those  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells  ! 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime  ! 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away  ; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  't  will  be  when  I  am  gone,  — 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on  ; 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE  SUN  IS  WARM,  THE  SKY  IS  CLEAR. 

STANZAS  WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION    NEAR   NAPLES. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  light : 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight,  — 
The  winds',  the  birds',  the  ocean-floods',  — 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 
With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 
Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers  thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone  ; 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion,  — 
How  sweet,  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion ! 

Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  Content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned,  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure  ; 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  ; 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  j-et  must  bear, 


_E3 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


229 


ft 


Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 

And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 

Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


BYRON'S    LATEST   VERSES. 


[Missolonghi,  January  23,  1824. 
thirty-sixth  year.] 


On    this   day  I  completed    my 


'T  is  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 
Since  others  it  has  ceased  to  move  ; 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love. 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf, 
The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone, 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 
Are  mine  alone. 

The  fire  that  in  my  bosom  preys 
Is  like  to  some  volcanic  isle, 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze, 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 
The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But 't  is  not  here,  —  it  is  not  here, 
Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now 
Where  glory  seals  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece  about  us  see  ; 
The  Spartan  borne  upon  his  shield 
"Was  not  more  free. 

Awake  !  not  Greece,  —  she  is  awake  ! 
Awake,  my  spirit  !  think  through  whom 
My  life-blood  tastes  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood  !    unto  thee, 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'sl  thy  youth,  — why  live? 

The  land  of  b< able  death 

Is  here,  — up  to  the  field,  ami  give 
Away  thy  breath  ! 

Seek  out  —  less  often  soughl  than  found  — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best  ; 

Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 

And  take  thy  rest  ! 

Byron. 


OLD. 

By  the  way' side,  on  a  mossy  stone, 
Sat  a  hoary  pilgrim,  sadly  musing ; 

Oft  I  marked  him  sitting  there  alone, 
All  the  landscape,  like  a  page,  perusing  ; 
Poor,  unknown, 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone. 

Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad-brimmed  hat  ; 

Coat  as  ancient  as  the  form  't  was  folding ; 
Silver  buttons,  queue,  and  crimped  cravat ; 

Oaken  staff  his  feeble  hand  upholding  ; 
There  he  sat  ! 
Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad-brimmed  hat. 

Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there, 
No  one  sympathizing,  no  one  heeding, 

None  to  love  him  for  his  thin  gray  hair, 
And  the  furrows  all  so  mutely  pleading 
Age  and  care  : 

Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there. 

It  was  summer,  and  we  went  to  school, 
Dapper  country  lads  and  little  maidens  ; 

Taught  the  motto  of  the  "  Dunce's  Stool,"  — 

Its  grave  import  still  my  fancy  ladens,  — 

".Here's  a- fool!" 

It  was  summer,  and  we  went  to  school. 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark  our  play, 
Some  of  us  were  joyous,  some  sad-hearted, 

I  remember  well,  too  well,  that  day  ! 
Oftentimes  the  tears  unbidden  started 
Would  not  stay 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark  our  play. 

One  sweet  spirit  broke  the  silent  spell, 
0,  to  me  her  name  was  always  Heaven  ! 

She  besought  him  all  his  grief  to  tell, 
(I  was  then  thirteen,  and  she  eleven,) 
Isabel ! 

One  sweet  spirit  broke  the  silent  spell. 

"Angel,"  said,  he  sadly,  "I  am  old  ; 

Earthly  hope  no  longer  hath  a  morrow  ; 
Yet,  why  I  sit  here  thou  shalt  be  told." 

Then  his  eye  bet  rayed  a  pearl  of  sorrow, 
I  (own  it  rolled  ! 
"Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "I  am  old. 

"I  have  tottered  here  to  look  once  more 
On  the  pleasanl  scene  where  1  delighted 

In  the  careless,  happy  days  of  yore, 

Ere  the  garden  of  my  hearl  was  blighted 
To  the  core  : 

I  have  tottered  here  to  look  once  more. 

"  All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear  ! 
E'en  this  gray  old  rock  where  I  am  seated, 


W 


a- 


230 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


—a 


Is  a  jewel  worth  my  journey  here  ; 

Ah  that  such  a  scene  must  be  completed 
With  a  tear  ! 

All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear  ! 

i 

"  Old  stone  school-house  !  —  it  is  still  the  same  ; 

There  's  the  very  step  I  so  oft  mounted  ; 
There  's  the  window  creaking  in  its  frame, 

And  the  notches  that  I  cut  and  counted 
For  the  game. 
Old  stone  school-house,  it  is  still  the  same. 

t 

"In  the  cottage  yonder  I  was  born  ; 

Long  my  happy  home,  that  humble  dwelling ; 
There  the  fields  of  clover,  wheat,  and  corn  ; 

There  the  spring  with  limpid  nectar  swelling  ; 
Ah,  forlorn  ! 
In  the  cottage  yonder  I  was  born. 

' '  Those  two  gateway  sycamores  you  see 
Then  were  planted  just  so  far  asunder 

That  long  well-pole  from  the  path  to  free, 

And  the  wagon  to  pass  safely  under  ; 

Ninety-three  ! 

Those  two  gateway  sycamores  you  see. 

' '  There  's  the  orchard  where  we  used  to  climb 
When  my  mates  and  I  were  boys  together, 

Thinking  nothing  of  the  flight  of  time, 

Fearing  naught  but  work  and  rainy  weather  ; 
Past  its  prime  ! 

There  's  the  orchard  where  we  used  to  climb. 

"There  the  rude,  three-cornered  chestnut-rails, 
Roundthe  pasture  where  the  flocks  were  grazing, 

Where,  so  sly,  I  used  to  watch  for  quails 
In  the  crops  of  buckwheat  we  were  raising ; 
Traps  and  trails  ! 

There  the  rude,  three-cornered  chestnut-rails. 

"  There  's  the  mill  that  ground  our  yellow  grain  ; 

Pond  and  river  still  serenely  flowing  ; 
Cot  there  nestling  in  the  shaded  lane, 

Where  the  lily  of  my  heart  was  blowing. 
Mary  Jane ! 
There  's  the  mill  that  ground  our  yellow  grain. 

"  There  's  the  gate  on  which  I  used  to  swing, 
Brook,  and  bridge,  and  barn,  and  old  red  stable ; 

But  alas  !  no  more  the  morn  shall  bring 
That  dear  group  around  my  father's  table  ; 
Taken  wing  ! 

There  's  the  gate  on  which  I  used  to  swing. 

"  I  am  fleeing,  — all  I  loved  have  fled. 

Yon  green  meadow  was  our  place  for  playing  ; 
That  old  tree  can  tell  of  sweet  things  said 

When  around  it  Jane  and  I  were  straying  ; 
She  is  dead  ! 
I  am  fleeing,  —  all  I  loved  have  fled. 


"Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky, 
Tracing  silently  life's  changeful  story, 

So  familiar  to  my  dim  old  eye, 

Points  me  to  seven  that  are  now  in  glory 
There  on  high ! 

Yon  white  spire,  a  pencil  on  the  sky. 

"  Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we  trod, 
Guided  thither  by  an  angel  mother  ; 

Now  she  sleeps  beneath  its  sacred  sod  ; 
Sire  and  sisters,  and  my  little  brother, 
Gone  to  God  ! 

Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we  trod. 

"There  I  heard  of  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways  ; 

Bless  the  holy  lesson  !  —  but,  ah,  never 
Shall  I  hear  again  those  songs  of  praise, 

Those  sweet  voices  silent  now  forever  ! 

Peaceful  days ! 

There  I  heard  of  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 

' '  There  my  Mary  blest  me  with  her  hand 
When  our  souls  drank  in  the  nuptial  blessing, 

Ere  she  hastened  to  the  spirit-land, 

Yonder  turf  her  gentle  bosom  pressing  ; 
Broken  band ! 

There  my  Mary  blest  me  with  her  hand. 

' '  I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once  more, 
And  the  sacred  place  where  we  delighted, 

Where  we  worshipped,  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was  blighted 
To  the  core  ! 

I  have  come  to  see  that  grave  once  more. 

"Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "I  am  old  ; 

Earthly  hope  no  longer  hath  a  morrow, 
Now,  why  I  sit  here  thou  hast  been  told." 

In  his  eye  another  pearl  of  sorrow, 
Down  it  rolled  ! 
"Angel,"  said  he  sadly,  "I  am  old." 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone, 
Sat  the  hoary  pilgrim,  sadly  musing  ; 

Still  I  marked  him  sitting  there  alone, 

All  the  landscape,  like  a  page,  perusing  ; 

Poor,  unknown  ! 

By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone. 

Ralph  Hoyt. 


THE  OLD   FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
Inmydays  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sittinglate,  with  my  bosom  cronies ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


tf> 


ff 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


a 


231 


I  loved  a  Love  once,  fairest  among  women  : 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her,  — 
All,  aU  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man  : 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly  ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  child- 
hood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwell- 
ing ? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces. 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have 

left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me  ;  all  are  departed  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


THE   BURIED   FLOWER. 

In  the  silence  of  my  chamber, 
When  the  night  is  still  and  deep, 

And  the  drowsy  heave  of  ocean 
Mutters  in  its  charmed  sleep, 

Oft  I  hear  the  angel  voices 

That  have  thrilled  me  long  ago,  — 
Voices  of  my  lost  companions, 

Lying  deep  beneath  the  snow. 

Where  are  now  the  flowers  we  tended  ? 

Withered,  broken,  branch  and  stem  ; 
Where  are  now  the  hopes  we  cherished  ? 

Scattered  to  the  winds  with  them. 

For  ye,  too,  were  flowers,  ye  dear  ones  ! 

Nursed  in  hope  and  reared  in  love, 
Looking  fondly  ever  upward 

To  the  clear  blue  heaven  above  ; 

Smiling  on  the  sun  that  cheered  us, 
Rising  lightly  from  the  rain, 

Never  folding  up  your  freshness 
Save  to  give  it  forth  again. 

0,  't  is  sad  t<>  lie  and  reckon 

All  the  days  (if  faded  youth, 

All  the  vows  that  we  believed  in, 

All  the  words  we  spoke  in  truth. 


Severed,  —  were  it  severed  only 
By  an  idle  thought  of  strife, 

Such  as  time  may  knit  together  ; 
Not  the  broken  chord  of  life  ! 

■  •  •  •  a 

0,  I  fling  my  spirit  backward, 
And  I  pass  o'er  years  of  pain  ; 

All  I  loved  is  rising  round  me, 
All  the  lost  returns  again. 

Brighter,  fairer  far  than  living, 
With  no  trace  of  woe  or  pain, 

Robed  in  everlasting  beauty, 
Shall  I  see  thee  once  again, 

By  the  light  that  never  fadeth, 
Underneath  eternal  skies,     - 

When  the  dawn  of  resurrection 
Breaks  o'er  deathless  Paradise. 

William  Edmonstowne  Aytoune. 


AFAR   IN   THE   DESERT. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  cling  to  the  past  ; 
When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears, 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years  ; 
And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled 
Flit  over  the  brain,  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead,  — 
Bright  visions  of  glory  that  vanished  too  soon  ; 
Day-dreams,  that  departed  ere  manhood's  noon  ; 
Attachments  by  fate  or  falsehood  reft ; 
Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left, 
And  my  native  land,  whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame  ; 
The  home  of  my  childhood  ;  the  haunts  of  my 

prime  ; 
All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time 
When  the  feelings  were  young,  and  the  world 

was  new, 
Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to  view  ; 
All,  all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  foregone  ! 
And  I,  a  lone  exile  remembered  of  none, 
My  high    aims    abandoned,    my  good   acts  un- 
done, 
Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun, 
With  that  sadness   of  heart  which  no    stranger 

may  scan,  — 
I  fly  to  the  desert  afar  from  man. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent    Hush-boy  alone  by  my  side., 
When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 
With  its  seems  of  oppression,   corruption,   and 
strife, 


W 


9.5 


32 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


■& 


The    proud   man's  frown,  and   the   base   man's 

fear, 
The  scorner's  laugh,  and  the  sufferer's  tear, 
And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and 

folly, 
Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy  ; 
When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts -are 

high, 
And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman's  sigh,  — 
0,  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride, 
Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride  ! 
There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 
And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed, 
With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand,  — 
The  only  law  of  the  Desert  Land  ! 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 

Away,  away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 

By  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  buffalo's  glen  ; 

By  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest 

graze, 
And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forest  o'erhung  with  wild 

vine  ; 
Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood, 
And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood, 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  fen  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his 

fill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 
O'er  the  brown  karroo,  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively  ; 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  shrill  whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray  ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain  ; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped  their  nest, 
Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parched  karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 

Away,  away,  in  the  wilderness  vast 

Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath  never  passed, 

And  the  quivered  Coranna  or  Bechuan 

Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan,  — 

A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 

Which  man  hath  abandoned   from  famine  and 

fear  ; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone, 
With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning  stone  ; 


Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 

Save  poisonoxis  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 

And  the  bitter-melon,  for  food  and  drink, 

Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt  lake's  brink  ; 

A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 

Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides  ; 

Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 

Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 

Appears,  to  refresh  the  aching  eye  ; 

But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky, 

And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 

Spread,  —  void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night-winds  round  me  sigh, 

And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 

As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone, 

Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave,  alone, 

"A  still  small  voice "  comes  through  the  wild 

(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child), 

Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear, 

Saying,  —  Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near  ! 

Thomas  Pringle. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   "PARADISE   LOST." 
EVE'S   LAMENT. 

0  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death  ! 
Must  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradise  ?  thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil !  these  happy  walks  and  shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  gods  ?  where  I  had  hope  to  spend, 
Quiet,  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
That  must  be  mortal  to  us  both.     0  flowers, 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 
My  early  visitation,  and  my  last 
At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From  the  first  opening  bud,  and  gave  ye  names  ! 
Who  now  shall  rear  ye  to  the  sun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  water  from  the  ambrosial  fount  ? 
Thee,  lastly,  nuptial  bower  !  by  me  adorned 
With  what  to  sight  or   smell  was  sweet,  from 

thee 
How  shall  I  part,  and  whither  wander  down 
Into  a  lower  world,  to  this  obscure 
And  wild  ?  how  shall  we  breathe  in  other  air 
Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  fruits  ? 

THE   DEPARTURE    FROM    PARADISE. 
ADAM    TO    MICHAEL. 

....  Gextly  hast  thou  told 
Thy  message,  which  might  else  in  telling  wound, 
And  in  performing  end  us.     What  besides 
Of  sorrow,  and  dejection,  and  despair 
Our  frailty  can  sustain,  thy  tidings  bring  ; 
Departure  from  this  happy  place,  our  sweet 
Recess,  and  only  consolation  left, 
Familiar  to  our  eyes,  all  places  else 


tfl- 


0 


a- 


POEMS   OF   SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


233 


Inhospitable  appear  and  desolate, 
Nor  knowing  us  nor  known  ;  and  if  by  prayer 
Incessant  I  could  hope  to  change  the  will 
Of  Him  who  all  things  can,  I  would  not  cease 
To  weary  him  with  my  assiduous  cries. 
But  prayer  against  his  absolute  decree 
No  more  avails  than  breath  against  the  wind, 
Blown  stifling  back  on  him  that  breathes  it  forth  ; 
Therefore  to  his  great  bidding  I  submit. 
This  most  afflicts  me,  that,  departing  hence, 
As  from  his  face  I  shall  be  hid,  deprived 
His  blessed  countenance,  here  I  could  frequent 
With  worship  place  by  place  where  he  vouch- 
safed 
Presence  divine,  and  to  my  sons  relate, 
On  this  mount  he  appeared  ;  under  this  tree 
Stood  visible  ;  among  these  pines  his  voice 
I  heard  ;  here  with  him  at  this  fountain  talked  : 
So  many  grateful  altars  I  would  rear 
Of  grassy  turf,  and  pile  up  every  stone 
Of  lustre  from  the  brook,  in  memory 
Or  monument  to  ages,  and  thereon 
Offer  sweet-smelling  gums,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 
In  yonder  nether  world  where  shall  I  seek 
His  bright  appearances,  or  footstep  trace  ? 
For  though  I  fled  him  angry,  yet,  recalled 
To  life  prolonged  and  promised  race,  I  now 
Gladly  behold  though  but  his  utmost  skirts 
Of  glory,  and  far  off  his  steps  adore. 

Henceforth  I  learn  that  to  obey  is  best, 

And  love  with  fear  the  only  God,  to  walk 

As  in  his  presence,  ever  to  observe 

His  providence,  and  on  him  sole  depend, 

Merciful  over  all  his  works,  with  «ood 

Still  overcoming  evil,  and  by  small 

Accomplishing  great  things,  by  things  deemed 

weak 
Subverting  worldly  strong  and  worldly  wise 
By  simply  meek  ;  that  suffering  for  truth's  sake 
Is  fortitude  to  highesl  victory, 
And  to  the  faithful  death  the  gate  of  life: 
•lit  this  by  his  example,  whom  1  now 
Acknowledge  my  Redeemer  ever  blest. 

KVF.    TO    ADAM. 

....  With  sorrow  and  heart's  distress 
Wearied,  I  fell  asleep.     Bui  now  lead  on; 
In  me  is  no  delay  ;  with  thee  to  go, 

Is  to  stay  here  ;  withoul  tl here  to  stay, 

Is  to  go  hence  unwilling  ;  thou  to  me 
Arl  all  things  under  heaven,  all  places  thou, 
Who  for  my  wilful  crime  arl  banished  hence. 
This  further  consolation,  yel  secure, 
I    arry  hence  ;  though  all  by  me  is  lost, 
Such  favor  I  unworthy  am  vouchsafed, 
By  me  the  promised  Seed  shall  all  restore. 


THE    DEPARTURE. 


In  either  hand  the  hastening  angel  caught 
Our  lingering  parents,  and  to  the  eastern  gate 
Led  them  direct,  and  down  the  cliff  as  fast 
To  the  subjected  plain  ;  then  disappeared. 
They,  looking  back,  all  the  eastern  side  beheld 
Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat, 
Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand  ;  the  gate 
With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery  arms. 
Some  natural  tears  they  dropt,  but  wiped  them 

soon  ; 
The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide. 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  wandering  steps  and 

slow, 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary  way. 

Milton. 


PATIENCE   AND   SORROW. 

FROM    "  KING    LEAR." 

Kent.  Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  to  any 
demonstration  of  grief  ? 

Gentleman.  Ay,   sir ;   she  took   them,  read 
them  in  my  presence  ; 
And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trilled  down 
Her  delicate  cheek,  it  seemed  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  passion  ;  who,  most  rebel-like, 
Sought  to  be  king  o'er  her. 

Kent.  0,  then  it  moved  her. 

Gent.  Not  to  a  rage  :  patience  and  sorrow  strove 
Who  should  express  her  goodliest.  You  have  seen 
Sunshine  and  rain  at  once  ;  her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  way  :  those  happy  smilets, 
That  played  on  her  ripe  lip,  seemed  not  to  know 
What  guests  were  in  her  eyes;  which  parted  thi 
As  pearls  from  diamonds  dropped.  —  In   brief. 

sorrow 
Would  be  a  rarity  most  beloved,  if  all 
Coukl  so  become  it.  Shakespeare. 


FLORENCE   VANE. 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 
Florence  Vane  ; 

My  life's  brighl  dream  and  early 
Hath  come  again; 

I  renew  in  my  fond  vision 
My  heart's  dear  pain, 

My  hopes  and  thy  derision, 
Florence  Vane  | 

The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 

Tlie  ruin  old, 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  I'Vfn  told, 


■ff 


234 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


-a 


That  spot,  the  hues  elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane ! 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime  ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 
Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main, 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane. 

But  fairest,  coldest  wonder  ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under  ; 

Alas  the  day ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain, 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep, 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane. 


PHILIP  P.  COOKE. 


MAN   WAS   MADE  TO   MOURN. 


When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 
One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man  whose  aged  step 

Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care  ; 
His  face  was  furrowed  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

II. 

"  Young  stranger,  whither  wanderestthou  ? " 

Began  the  reverend  sage  ; 
"Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasures  rage  ? 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man  ! 


ill. 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Outspreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labor  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride,  — 
I  've  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 

Twice  forty  times  return  ; 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

IV. 

0  man,  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Mispending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  : 

Licentious  passions  burn  ; 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  Nature's  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

v. 

Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  in  his  right ; 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 
Then  age  and  want,  0  ill-matched  pair  ! 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VI. 

A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest ; 
Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  0,  what  crowds  in  every  land 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn,  — 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VII. 

Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills, 

Inwoven  with  our  frame, 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

VIII. 

See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabored  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 


-3s 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


235 


-a 


IX. 

If  I  'm  designed  yon  lordling's  slave, 

By  Nature's  law  designed,  — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 


Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast : 
This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  last  ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

XI. 

0  Death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend, 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest. 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  ; 
But  0,  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary  -laden  mourn  ! 

Robert  Burns. 


LOVE   NOT. 

Love  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 
Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly  flow- 
ers, — 
Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 
Ere  they  have  blossomed  for  a  few  short  hours. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not  !  the  thing  ye  love  may  change  ; 
The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you, 
The  kindly-beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange, 
The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not  !  the  thing  you  love  may  die,  — 
May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, 
Beam  o'er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not  !  0  warning  vainly  said 
In  present  hours  as  in  years  gone  by  ! 
Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  ones'  head, 
Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die. 

Love  not  ! 


Caroline  Norton. 


SAMSON   AGONISTES. 

SAMSON. 

A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  farther  on  ; 
For  yonder  bank  hath  choice  of  sun  or  shade  : 
There  I  am  wont  to  sit,  when  any  chance 
Relieves  me  from  my  task  of  servile  toil, 
Daily  in  the  common  prison  else  enjoined  me, 
Where  I  a  prisoner,  chained,  scarce  freely  draw 
The  air  imprisoned  also,  close  and  damp, 
Unwholesome  draught ;  but  here  I  feel  amends, 
The  breath  of  heaven  fresh  blowing,  pure  and 

sweet, 
With  day-spring  born  :  here  leave  me  to  respire. 
This  day  a  solemn  feast  the  people  hold 
To  Dagon,  their  sea-idol,  and  forbid 
Laborious  works  :  unwillingly  this  rest 
Their  superstition  yields  me  ;  hence  with  leave 
Retiring  from  the  popular  noise,  I  seek 
This  unfrequented  place  to  find  some  ease,  — 
Ease  to  the  body  some,  none  to  the  mind 
From  restless  thoughts,  that,  like  a  deadly  swarm 
Of  hornets  armed,  no  sooner  found  alone, 
But  rush  upon  me  thronging,  and  present 
Times  past,  what  once  I  was,  and  what  am  now. 
0,  wherefore  was  my  birth  from  Heaven  foretold 
Twice  by  an  angel,  who  at  last  in  sight 
Of  both  my  parents  all  in  flames  ascended 
From  off  the  altar,  where  an  offering  burned, 
As  in  a  fiery  column,  charioting 
His  godlike  presence,  and  from  some  great  act 
Or  benefit  revealed  to  Abraham's  race  ? 
Why  was  my  breeding  ordered  and  prescribed 
As  of  a  person  separate  to  God, 
Designed  for  great  exploits,  if  I  must  die 
Betrayed,  captived,  and  both  my  eyes  put  out, 
Made  of  my  enemies  the  scorn  and  gaze  ; 
To  grind  in  brazen  fetters  under  task 
With  this  Heaven-gifted  strength  ?     0  glorious 

strength, 
Put  to  the  labor  of  a  beast,  debased 
Lower  than  bondslave  !     Promise  was  that  I 
Should  Israel  from  Philistian  yoke  deliver; 
Ask  for  this  great  deliverer  now,  and  find  him 
Eyeless  in  Gaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves, 
Himself  in  bonds  under  Philistian  yoke  ! 

O  loss  of  sight,  of  thee  I  most  complain  ! 

Blind  among  enemies,  O,  worse  than  chains, 

Dungeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrepit  age  ! 

Light,  the  prime  work  of  God,  to  ine  is  extinct, 

And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 

Annulled,  which  might  in  pari  my  grief  have  eased. 

Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  become 

Of  man  or  worm  ;  the  vilest  here  excel  me  : 

They  creep,    yet    sec  ;     I    dark   ill    light    exposed 
To  daily  fraud,  contempt,  abuse,  and  wrong, 


eg- 


-ff 


23G 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


a 


Within  doors  or  without,  still  as  a  fool, 

In  power  of  others,  never  in  my  own  ; 

Scarce  half  I  seem  to  live,  dead  more  than  half. 

0  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon, 

Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse, 

Without  all  hope  of  day  ! 

Milton. 


THE   MANIAC. 

Stay,  jailer,  stay,  and  hear  my  woe  ! 

She  is  not  mad  who  kneels  to  thee  ; 
For  what  I  'm  now  too  well  I  know, 

And  what  I  was,  and  what  should  be. 
I  '11  rave  no  more  in  proud  despair  ; 

My  language  shall  be  mild,  though  sad  ; 
But  yet  I  firmly,  truly  swear, 

/  am  not  mad,  I  am  not  mad  ! 

My  tyrant  husband  forged  the  tale 

Which  chains  me  in  this  dismal  cell ; 
My  fate  unknown  my  friends  bewail,  — ■ 

0  jailer,  haste  that  fate  to  tell ! 
0,  haste  my  father's  heart  to  cheer  ! 

His  heart  at  once  't  will  grieve  and  glad 
To  know,  though  kept  a  captive  here, 

1  am  not  mad,  I  am  not  mad  ! 

He  smiles  in  scorn,  and  turns  the  key  ; 

He  quits  the  grate  ;  I  knelt  in  vain  ; 
His  glimmering  lamp  still,  still  I  see,  — 

'T  is  gone  !  and  all  is  gloom  again. 
Cold,  bitter  cold  !  —  No  warmth  !  no  light ! 

Life,  all  thy  comforts  once  I  had  ; 
Yet  here  I  'm  chained,  this  freezing  night, 

Although  not  mad ;  no,  no,  —  not  mad  ! 

'T  is  sure  some  dream,  some  vision  vain  ; 

What  !  /,  the  child  of  rank  and  wealth,  — 
Am  /the  wretch  who  clanks  this  chain, 

Bereft  of  freedom,  friends,  and  health  ? 
Ah  !  while  I  dwell  on  blessings  fled, 

Which  nevermore  my  heart  must  glad, 
How  aches  my  heart,  how  burns  my  head  ; 

But  't  is  not  mad ;  no,  't  is  not  mad  I 

Hast  thou,  my  child,  forgot,  ere  this, 

A  mother's  face,  a  mother's  tongue  ? 
She  '11  ne'er  forget  your  parting  kiss, 

Nor  round  her  neck  how  fast  you  clung  ; 
Nor  how  with  her  you  sued  to  stay  ; 

Nor  how  that  suit  your  sire  forbade  ; 
Nor  how  —  I  '11  drive  such  thoughts  away  ; 

They'll  makeme  mad,  they  '1\  make  me  mad  ! 

His  rosy  lips,  how  sweet  they  smiled  ! 

His  mild  blue  eyes,  how  bright  they  shone  ! 
None  ever  bore  a  lovelier  child , 

And  art  thou  now  forever  gone  ? 


And  must  I  never  see  thee  more, 

My  pretty,  pretty,  pretty  lad  ? 
I  will  be  free  i  unbar  the  door  ! 

lam  not  mad;  I  am  not  mad  I 

0,  hark  !  what  mean  those  yells  and  cries  ? 

His  chain  some  furious  madman  breaks  ; 
He  comes,  —  I  see  his  glaring  eyes  ; 

Now,  now,  my  dungeon -grate  he  shakes. 
Help  !  Help  ! — -He  's  gone  !  —  0,  fearful  woe, 

Such  screams  to  hear,  such  sights  to  see  ! 
My  brain,  my  brain,  —  I  know,  I  know 

I  am  not  mad,  but  soon  shell  be. 

Yes,  soon  ;  —  for,  lo  yon  !  —  while  I  speak,  — 

Mark  how  yon  demon's  eyeballs  glare  ! 
He  sees  me  ;  now,  with  dreadful  shriek, 

He  whirls  a  serpent  high  in  air. 
Horror  !  —  the  reptile  strikes  his  tooth 

Deep  in  my  heart,  so  crushed  and  sad  ; 
Ay,  laugh,  ye  fiends  ;  —  I  feel  the  truth  ; 

Your  task  is  done,  —  I  'm  mad  !  I  'm  mad  ! 
George  Monk  LEwts. 


ODE   TO   A   NIGHTINGALE. 

[Written  in  the  spring-  of  1819,  when  suffering-  from  physical  de- 
pression, the  precursor  of  his  death,  which  happened  soon  after.] 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk  ; 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-ward  had  sunk. 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 
That  thou,  light- winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 

Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  Summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

0  for  a  draught  of  vintage 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 
Dance,  and    Provencal   song,  and   sunburned 
mirth  ! 
0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth,  — 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  un- 
seen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim. 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What   thou    among    the    leaves   hast    never 
known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret ; 

Here,   where   men   sit   and   hear    each  other 
groan, 


<&- 


ff 


POEMS   OF   SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


237 


■a 


Where  palsy  shakes  a  few  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and 
dies, 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  he  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden- eyed  despairs, 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee  ! 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  ; 
Already  with  thee  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  queen-moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  fays  ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the   breezes 
blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs  ; 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild,  — 

White  hawthorn  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast-fading  violets,  covered  up  in  leaves  ; 
And  mid-May's  oldest  child, 

The  coming  musk -rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  bees  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now,  more  than  ever,  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight,  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad, 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in 
vain,  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voire  I  hear  this  passing  nigh!  was  heard 

Id  ancient  days  by  emperor  ami  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for 
home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  ofttiiiics  hath 

Charmed  magic  easements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  '   the  very  word  is  like  a  bell, 
To  toll  toe  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 

Allien  !  the  Fancy  cannot  cheal  bo  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 


Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hillside  ;  and  now  't  is  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision  or  a  waking  dream  ? 
Fled  is  that  music,  —  do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

John  Keats. 


THE   PALMER. 


FROM        MARMION. 


Whenas  the  Palmer  came  in  hall, 

No  lord,  nor  knight,  was  there  more  tall, 

Or  had  a  statelier  step  withal, 

Or  looked  more  high  and  keen  ; 
For  no  saluting  did  he  wait, 
But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state, 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate, 

As  he  his  peer  had  been. 
But  his  gaunt  frame  was  worn  with  toil ; 
His  cheek  was  sunk,  alas  the  while  ! 
And  when  he  struggled  at  a  smile, 
His  eye  looked  haggard  wild  : 
Poor  wretch  !  the  mother  that  him  bare, 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there, 
In  his  wan  face  and  sunburned  hair 

She  had  not  known  her  child. 
Danger,  long  travel,  want,  or  woe, 
Soon  change  the  form  that  best  we  know,  — 
For  deadly  fear  can  time  outgo, 

And  blanch  at  once  the  hair  ; 
Hard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face, 
And  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright  grace, 
Nor  does  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace, 

More  deeply  than  despair. 

Happy  whom  none  of  these  befall, 

But  this  poor  Palmer  knew  them  all. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


WOOLSEY'S   FALL. 


FROM        HENRY   VIII.' 


F.\i:f/well,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope  ;  to-morrow  blossoms. 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost  ; 

And — when  he  thinks,  L,r 1  easy  man,  full  surely 

His  greatness  is  a  ripening-      nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     |  have  ventured, 
Lake  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  Madders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea.  of  glory  ; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  Length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  me, 

Weary  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  forever  hide  me. 


~-ff 


238 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


ft 


Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  1  hate  ye  : 
I  feel  my  heart  new  opened.     0,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors  I 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have  : 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


CARDINAL   WOLSEY'S   SPEECH   TO 
CROMWELL. 

FROM    "  HENRV   VIII." 

Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries  ;  but  thou  hast  forced  me, 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 
Let 's  dry  our  eyes  :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Crom- 
well ; 
And  —  when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
( )f  me  more  must  be  heard  of —  say,  I  taught  thee, 
Say,  Wolsey — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor — 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in  ; 
A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it. 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition  : 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels  ;  how  can  man,  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by 't  ? 
Love  thyself  last  :  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate 

thee  : 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues.   Be  just,  and  fear  not : 
Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's  ;  then  if  thou  fall'st,  0 

Cromwell  ! 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr. 
Serve  the  king  ;  and  — pr'ythee,  lead  me  in  : 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 
To  the  last  penny  ;  't  is  the  king's  :  my  robe, 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 
I  dai-e  now  call  mine  own.    OCromwell,  Cromwell ! 
Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  served  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 

Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies  ! 

Shakespeare. 


DEATH   OF   THE   WHITE   FAWN. 

THE  wanton  troopers,  riding  by, 

Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 

Ungentle  men  !  they  cannot  thrive 

Who  killed  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst,  alive, 

Them  any  harm  ;  alas  !  nor  could 

Thy  death  yet  do  them  any  good. 

I'm  sure  I  never  wished  them  ill,  — 


Nor  do  I  for  all  this,  nor  will ; 

But  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 

Prevail  with  Heaven  to  forget 

Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears, 

Rather  than  fail.     But,  0  my  fears  ! 

It  cannot  die  so.     Heaven's  king 

Keeps  register  of  everything  ; 

And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain  ; 

Even  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain,  — 

Else  men  are  made  their  deodands. 

Though  they  should  wash  their  guilty  hands 

In  this  warm  life-blood,  which  doth  part 

From  thine  and  wound  me  to  the  heart, 

Yet  could  they  not  be  clean,  —  their  stain 

Is  dyed  in  such  a  purple  grain  ; 

There  is  not  such  another  in 

The  world  to  offer  for  their  sin. 

Inconstant  Sylvio  !  when  yet 
I  had  not  found  him  counterfeit, 
One  morning  (I  remember  well), 
Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell, 
Gave  it  to  me  ;  nay,  and  I  know 
What  he  said  then,  —  I'm  sure  I  do  : 
Said  he,  ' '  Look  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a  fawn  to  hunt  his  dear  ! " 
But  Sylvio  soon  had  me  beguiled,  — 
This  waxed  tame,  while  he  grew  wild  ; 
And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 
Left  me  his  fawn,  but  took  his  heart. 

Thenceforth  I  set  myself  to  play 
My  solitary  time  away 
With  this  ;  and,  very  well  content, 
Could  so  mine  idle  life  have  spent. 
For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot  and  heart,  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game.     It  seemed  to  bless 
Itself  in  me  ;  how  could  I  less 
Than  love  it  ?     0,  I  cannot  be 
Unkind  t'  a  beast  that  loveth  me  ! 

Had  it  lived  long,  I  do  not  know 
Whether  it,  too,  might  have  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did,  —  his  gifts  might  be 
Perhaps  as  false,  or  more,  than  he. 
For  I  am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a  time  espy, 
Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel  man. 

With  sweetest  milk,  and  sugar,  first 
I  it  at  mine  own  fingers  nursed  ; 
And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 
It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 
It  had  so  sweet  a  breath  !  and  oft 
I  blushed  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 
And  white  — shall  I  say  than  my  hand  ? 
Nay,  any  lady's  of  the  land. 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
'T  was  on  those  little  silver  feet  ! 
With  what  a  pretty,  skipping  grace 


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POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


■a 


239 


It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race  ! 
And  when  't  had  left  me  far  away, 
'T  would  stay,  and  ran  again,  and  stay  ; 
For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own,  — 
But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 
And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  wilderness  ; 
And  all  the  springtime  of  the  year 
It  only  loved  to  be  there. 
Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 
Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie  ; 
Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 
Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes  ; 
For  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade 
It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 
Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed, 
Until  its  lips  even  seemed  to  bleed  ; 
And  then  to  me  't  would  boldly  trip, 
And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 
But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill ; 
Audits  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold. 
Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

0,  help  !  0,  help  !  I  see  it  faint, 
And  die  as  calmly  as  a  saint  ! 
See  how  it  weeps  !  the  tears  do  come, 
Sad,  slowly,  dropping  like  a  gum. 
So  weeps  the  wounded  balsam  ;  so 
The  holy  frankincense  doth  flow; 
The  brotherless  Heliades 
Melt  in  such  amber  tears  as  these, 

I  in  a  golden  phial  will 
Keep  these  two  crystal  tears,  and  fill 
It,  till  it  do  o'erflow  with  mine  ; 
Then  place  it  in  Diana's  shrine. 

Now  my  sweet  fawn  is  vanished  to 
Whither  the  swans  and  turtles  go, 
In  fait  Elysium  to  endure, 
"With  in  ilk -white  lambs,  and  ermines  pure. 
0,  do  not  run  too  fast !  for  I 
Will  but  bespeak  thy  grave  —  and  die. 

First,  my  unhappy  statue  shall 
Be  cut  in  marble  ;  and  withal, 
Let  it  be  weeping  too.     But  there 
The  engraver  sure  his  art  may  spare  ; 
For  I  so  truly  thee  bemoan 
Thai  1  shall  weep,  though  I  be  stone, 
Until  my  tears,  still  dropping,  wear 
My  breast,  themselves  engraving  there. 
There  a1  my  feel  Bhalt  thou  be  laid, 
Of  purest  alabaster  made  ; 
For  I  would  have  thine  image  be 
White  as  I  can,  though  not  as  thee. 

Andrew  marvell. 


FAREWELL,    LIFE. 

WRITTEN    DURING   SICKNESS,  APRIL,    1845. 

Farewell,  life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  ; 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night,  — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows,  — 
I  smt  11  the  mould  above  the  rose  ! 

Welcome,  life  !  the  spirit  strives  ! 

Strength  returns  and  hope  revives  ; 

Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 

Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn,  — 

O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 

Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 

Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold,  — 

I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE   MAY   QUEEN. 

1. 
You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 

mother  dear  ; 
To-morrow  '11  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad 

new-year,  — 
Of  all  the  glad  new-year,  mother,  the  maddest, 

merriest  day  ; 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

n. 
There  's  many  a  black,  black  eye,  they  say,  but 

none  so  bright  as  mine  ; 
There  's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there  's  Kate  and 

Caroline  ; 
But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land, 

they  say  : 
So  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 
in. 
I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall 

never  wake, 
If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins 

to  break  ; 
But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers  and  buds,  and 

garlands  gay  ; 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

IV. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley,  whom  think  ye  should 

I  see 
But  Robin  leaning  on  the   bridge  beneath   the 

hazel-tree  ? 


fy- 


T? 


[fr 


240 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


^ 


He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave 

him  yesterday,  — 
But  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

v. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all 

in  white  ; 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash 

of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what 

they  say, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

VI. 

They  say  he 's  dying  all  for  love,  —  but  that  can 
never  be  ; 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother,  —  what 
is  that  to  me  ? 

There  's  many  a  bolder  lad  '11  woo  me  any  sum- 
mer day  ; 

And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 
be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

VII. 

Little  Erne  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the 

green, 
And  you  '11  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made 

the  Queen  ; 
For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  '11  come  from 

far  away  ; 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

VIII. 
The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  woven  its 

wavy  bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet 

cuckoo-flowers  ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  hre  in 

swamps  and  hollows  gray  ; 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

IX. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the 

meadow-grass, 
And  tlic  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten 

as  they  pass  ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the 

livelong  clay  ; 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

x. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  '11  be  fresh  and  green  and 

still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the 

hill 


And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  '11  merrily 

glance  and  play, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to 

be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

XI. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me 

early,  mother  dear ; 
To-morrow  '11  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad 

new-year  ; 
To-morrow  '11   be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest, 

merriest  day, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm 

to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

new  year's  eve. 

i. 

If  you  're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 

mother  dear, 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  new- 
year. 
It  is  the  last  new-year  that  I  shall  ever  see,  — 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould,  and  think 
no  more  of  me. 

II. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set,  —  he  set  and  left  be- 
hind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my 

peace  of  mind ; 
And  the  new-year's  coming  up,  mother ;  but  I 

shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the 

tree. 

in. 
Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers ;  we  had 

a  merry  day,  — 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made 

me  Queen  of  May  ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  May-pole  and  in  the 

hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white 

chimney-tops. 

IV. 
There 's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills,  —  the  frost 

is  on  the  pane  ; 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again. 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come 

out  on  high,  — ■ 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

V. 

The  building  rook  '11  caw  from  the  windy  tall 
elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  '11  come  back  again  with  sum- 
mer o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mould- 
ering grave. 


^ 


w 


n- 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AXD   ADVERSITY. 


•a 


241 


t& 


VI. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave 

of  mine, 
In  the  early,  early  morning  the  summer  sun  '11 

shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon 

the  hill,  — 
When  you  are  wami-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the 

world  is  still. 

VII. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath 

the  waning  light 
You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields 

at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs 

blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the 

bulrush  in  the  pool. 

VIII. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the 

hawthorn  shade, 
And  you  '11  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I 

am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother  ;  I  shall  hear  you 

when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and 

pleasant  grass. 

IX. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you  '11  forgive 

me  now  ; 
You  '11  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  iqion  my  cheek 

and  brow  ; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief 

be  wild  ; 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  —  you  have 

another  child. 


If  I  can,  I  '11  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my 

resting-place ; 
Though  you'll  in.t  so-  me,  mother,  I  shall  look 

upon  your  face  ; 
Though   I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken 

what  you  say. 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I  'm 

far  away. 

XI. 

(; 1  nighl  !  good  night  !   when  1  have  said  good 

nighl  forevermore, 
And  you  Bee  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold 

of  the  door, 
Don'1  lei  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be 

growing  green,  — - 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have 

been. 

16 


XII. 

She'll  find  my  garden  tools  upon  the  granary 
floor. 

Let  her  take  'em,  —  they  are  hers  ;  I  shall  never 
garden  more. 

But  tell  her,  when  I  'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose- 
bush that  I  set 

About  the  parlor  window  and  the  box  of  mignon- 
ette. 

XIII. 

Good  night,  sweet  mother  !  Call  me  before  the 
day  is  born. 

All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 

But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  new- 
year,  — 

So,  if  you  're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother 
dear 

CONCLUSION. 


I  thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I 

am ; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of 

the  lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the 

year  ! 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the 

violet 's  here. 

ii. 

0,  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the 

skies ; 
And  sweeter  is  the  }Toung  lamb's  voice  to  me  that 

cannot  rise  ; 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers 

that  blow  ; 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life,  to  me  that  long 

to  go. 

in. 

It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the 
blessed  sun, 

And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay  ;  and  yet,  His 
will  be  done  ! 

But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  re- 
lease ; 

And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me 
words  of  peace. 

IV. 

0,  blessings  oil  his  kindly  voice,  and  on  Ids  silver 

hair  ! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet 

Bie  there  ! 

0,  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver 

head  I 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside 

my  bed. 


B3 


a- 


242 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


a 


He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  lie  showed  me 

all  the  sin ; 
Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there  's 

One  will  let  me  in. 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that 

could  be  ; 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for 

me. 

vr. 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the 

death-watch  beat,  — 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and 

morning  meet  ; 
But   sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your 

hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the 

sign. 

vn. 
All   in   the   wild   March-morning   I    heard  the 

angels  call,  — 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark 

was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began 

to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them 

call  my  soul. 

VIII. 

For,  lying  broad  awake,  I  thought  of  you  and 

Effie  dear ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer 

here  ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  prayed  for  both,  —  and  so 

I  felt  resigned, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the 

wind. 

IX. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listened  in  my 

bed; 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me,  —  I  know 

not  what  was  said  ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all 

my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the 

wind. 


But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I  said,  "It's  not 

for  them,  —  it 's  mine  "  ; 
And  if  it  conies  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it 

for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and   close   beside  the 

wir.dow-bars  ; 
Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  heaven  and  die 

among  the  stars. 


XI. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near  ;  I  trust  it  is. 

I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will 

have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day  ; 
But  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past 

away. 

XII. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not 

to  fret ; 
There 's  many  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him 

happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived  —  I  cannot  tell  —  I  might  have 

been  his  wife  ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my 

desire  of  life. 

XIII. 

0,  look  !  the  sun  begins  to  rise  !  the  heavens  are 

in  a  glow  ; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them 

I  know. 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his 

light  may  shine,  — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than 

mine. 

XIV. 

0,  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this 

day  is  done 
The  voice  that  now  is  speaking  may  be  beyond 

the  sun,  — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and 

true,  — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ?  why 

make  we  such  ado  ? 

XV. 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home, 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you   and 

Effie  come,  — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your 

breast,  — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the 

weary  are  at  rest. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


HOME,   WOUNDED. 

Wheel  me  into  the  sunshine, 

Wheel  me  into  the  shadow, 

There  must  be  leaves  on  the  woodbine, 

Is  the  king-cup  crowned  in  the  meadow  ? 

Wheel  me  down  to  the  meadow, 
Down  to  the  little  river, 
In  sun  or  in  shadow 


m- 


-# 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


243 


~a 


I  shall  not  dazzle  or  shiver, 
I  shall  be  happy  anywhere, 
Every  breath  of  the  morning  air 
Makes  me  throb  and  quiver. 

Stay  wherever  you  will, 

By  the  mount  or  under  the  hill, 

Or  down  by  the  little  river  : 

Stay  as  long  as  you  please, 

Give  me  only  a  bud  from  the  trees, 

Or  a  blade  of  grass  in  morning  dew, 

Or  a  cloudy  violet  clearing  to  blue, 

I  could  look  on  it  forever. 

Wheel,  wheel  through  the  sunshine, 
Wheel,  wheel  through  the  shadow  ; 
There  must  be  odors  round  the  pine, 
There  must  be  balm  of  breathing  kine, 
Somewhere  down  in  the  meadow. 
Must  I  choose  ?     Then  anchor  me  there 
Beyond  the  beckoning  poplars,  where 
The  larch  is  snooding  her  flowery  hair 
With  wreaths  of  morning  shadow. 

Among  the  thickest  hazels  of  the  brake 

Perchance  some  nightingale  doth  shake 

His  feathers,  and  the  air  is  full  of  song  ; 

In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young  and  strong, 

He  used  to  sing  on  yonder  garden  tree, 

Beside  the  nursery. 

All,  I  remember  how  I  loved  to  wake, 

And  find  him  singing  on  the  self-same  bough 

(I  know  it  even  now) 

Where,  since  the  flit  of  bat, 

In  ceaseless  voice  he  sat, 

Trying  the  spring  night  over,  like  a  tune, 

Beneath  the  vernal  moon  ; 

And  while  I  listed  long, 

Day  rose,  and  still  he  sang, 

And  all  his  stanchless  song, 

As  something  falling  unaware, 

Fell  out  of  the  tall  trees  lie  sang  among, 

Fell  ringing  down  the  ringingmorn,  and  rang, — 

Rang  like  a  golden  jewel  down  a  golden  stair. 

My  soul  lies  out  like  a  basking  hound,  — 

A  hound  that  dreams  and  dozes ; 

Along  my  life  my  length  I  lay, 

I  fill  to-morrow  and  yesterday, 

I  am  warm  with  the  suns  thai  bavelongsinceset, 

1  am  warm  with  the  summers  thai  are  nut  yet, 

And  like  one  who  dreams  and  dozes 

Softly  afloal  on  a  sunny  sea, 

Two  worlds  are  whispering  over  me, 

And  there  blows  a  wind  of  roses 

From  the  backward  shore  to  the  shore  before, 

From  the  shore  before  to  the  backward  shore, 

And  like  two  clouds  thai  meet  and  pour 

Each  through  each,  till  core  in  core 


A  single  self  reposes, 

The  nevermore  with  the  evermore 

Above  me  mingles  and  closes  ; 

As  my  soul  lies  out  like  the  basking  hound, 

And  wherever  it  lies  seems  happy  ground, 

And  when,  awakened  by  some  sweet  sound, 

A  dreamy  eye  uncloses, 

I  see  a  blooming  world  around, 

And  I  lie  amid  primroses,  — 

Years  of  sweet  primroses, 

Springs  of  fresh  primroses, 

Springs  to  be,  and  springs  for  me 

Of  distant  dim  primroses. 

0  to  lie  a-dream,  a-dream, 

To  feel  I  may  dream  and  to  know  you  deem 

My  work  is  done  forever, 

And  the  palpitating  fever, 

That  gains  and  loses,  loses  and  gains, 
And  beats  the  hurrying  blood  on  the  brunt  of  a 
thousand  pains, 

Cooled  at  once  by  that  blood-let 

Upon  the  parapet  ; 
And  all  the  tedious  tasked  toil  of  the  difficult  long 
endeavor 

Solved  and  quit  by  no  more  fine 

Than  these  limbs  of  mine, 

Spanned  and  measured  once  for  all 

By  that  right  hand  I  lost, 

Bought  up  at  so  light  a  cost 

As  one  blood)'  fall 

On  the  soldier's  bed, 

And  three  days  on  the  ruined  wall 

Among  the  thirstless  dead. 

0  to  think  my  name  is  crost 

From  duty's  muster-roll  ; 

That  1  may  slumber  though  the  clarion  call, 

And  live  the  joy  of  an  embodied  soul 

Free  as  a  liberated  ghost. 

0  to  feed  a  life  of  deed 

Was  emptied  out  to  feed 

That  lire  of  pain  that  burned  so  brief  awhile,  — 

That  fire  from  which  1  come,  as  the  dead  come 

Forth  from  the  irreparable  tomb, 

Or  as  a  martyr  on  his  funeral  pile 

Heaps  up  the  burdens  other  men  do  bear 

Through  years  of  segregated  care, 

And  takes  the  total  load 

Upon  his  shoulders  broad, 

And  steps  from  earth  to  God. 

o  to  think,  through  good  or  ill, 

Whatever  I  am  you  '11  love  me  still  ; 
0  to  think,  though  dull  1   1"  . 

Sou  thai  are  so  grand  and  free, 

You  that  are  BO  brighl  and  gay. 

Will  pause  to  hear  me  when  I  will, 
As  though  my  head  were  gray  ; 


-B 


244 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


-a 


And  though  there  's  little  I  can  say, 

Each    will   look   kind  with   honor   while   he 

hears. 
And  to  your  loving  ears 
My  thoughts  will  halt  with  honorable  scars, 
And  when  niy  dark  voice  stumbles  with  the 

weight 
Of  what  it  doth  relate 
(Like  that  blind  comrade, — blinded  in   the 

wars,  — 
Who  bore  the  one-eyed  brother  that  was  lame), 
You  '11  remember  't  is  the  same 
That  cried  "  Follow  me," 
Upon  a  summer's  day  ; 
And  I  shall  understand  with  unshed  tears 
This  great  reverence  that  I  see, 
And  bless  the  day,  —  and  thee, 
Lord  God  of  victory  ! 

And  she, 

Perhaps,  0  even  she 

May  look  as  she  looked  when  I  knew  her 

In  those  old  days  of  childish  sooth, 

Ere  my  boyhood  dared  to  woo  her. 

I  will  not  seek  nor  sue  her, 

For  I  'in  neither  fonder  nor  truer 

Than  when  she  slighted  my  lovelorn  youth, 

My  giftless,  graceless,  guinealess  truth, 

And  I  only  lived  to  rue  her. 

But  I  '11  never  love  another, 

And,  in  spite  of  her  lovers  and  lands, 

She  shall  love  me  yet,  my  brother  ! 

As  a  child  that  holds  by  his  mother, 

While  his  mother  speaks  his  praises, 

Holds  with  eager  hands, 

And  ruddy  and  silent  stands 

In  the  ruddy  and  silent  daisies, 

And  hears  her  bless  her  boy, 

And  lifts  a  wondering  joy, 

So  I  '11  not  seek  nor  sue  her, 

But  I  '11  leave  my  glory  to  woo  her, 

And  I  '11  stand  like  a  child  beside, 

And  from  behind  the  purple  pride 

I  '11  lift  my  eyes  unto  her, 

And  I  shall  not  be  denied. 

And  you  will  love  her,  brother  dear, 

And  perhaps  next  year  you  '11  bring  me  here 

All  through  the  balmy  April  tide, 

And  she  will  trip  like  spring  by  my  side, 

And  be  all  the  birds  to  my  ear. 

And  here  all  three  we  '11  sit  in  the  sun, 

And  see  the  Aprils  one  by  one, 

Primrosed  Aprils  on  and  on, 

Till  the  floating  prospect  closes 

In  golden  glimmers  that  rise  and  rise, 

And  perhaps  are  d'-ntns  <»t'  Paradise, 

And  perhaps  too  far  for  mortal  eyes, 


New  springs  of  fresh  primroses, 
Springs  of  earth's  primroses, 
Springs  to  be  and  springs  for  me 
Of  distant  dim  primroses. 


Sidney  Dobell. 


THE   BLIND   BOY. 

0,  SAY  what  is  that  thing  called  Light, 

Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy  ? 
What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight, 

0,  tell  your  poor  blind  boy  ! 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see, 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 

I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 
Or  make  it  day  or  night  ? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 

Whene'er  1  sleep  or  play  ; 
And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 

With  me  't  were  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 

You  mourn  my  hapless  woe  ; 
But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 

A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 

My  cheer  of  mind  destroy  : 
Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 

Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 

COLLEY  ClBBER. 


DIVERSITY   OF   FORTUNE. 

FROM    "MISS    KILMANSEGG." 

What  different  dooms  our  birthdays  bring  ! 
For  instance,  one  little  manikin  thing 

Survives  to  wear  many  a  wrinkle  ; 
While  death  forbids  another  to  wake, 
And  a  son  that  it  took  nine  moons  to  make 

Expires  without  even  a  twinkle  : 

Into  this  world  we  come  like  ships, 

Launched  from  the  docks,  and  stocks,  and  slips, 

For  fortune  fair  or  fatal ; 
And  one  little  craft  is  cast  away 
In  its  very  first  trip  in  Babbicome  Bay, 

While  another  rides  safe  at  Port  Natal. 

What  different  lots  our  stars  accord  ! 

This  babe  to  be  hailed  and  wooed  as  a  lord  ! 

And  that  to  be  shunned  like  a  leper  ! 
One,  to  the  world's  wine,  honey,  and  corn, 
Another,  like  Colchester  native,  born 

To  its  vinegar  only,  and  pepper. 


"tT 


to3 


-Ff 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


245 


ft 


One  is  littered  under  a  roof 
Neither  wind  nor  water  proof,  — 

That 's  the  prose  of  Love  in  a  cottage,  — 
A  puny,  nuked,  shivering  wretch, 
The  whole  of  whose  birthright  would  not  fetch, 
Though  Rollins  himself  drew  up  the  sketch, 

The  bid  of  "a  mess  of  pottage." 

Born  of  Fortunatus's  kin, 
Another  comes  tenderly  ushered  in 

To  a  prospect  all  bright  and  burnished  : 
No  tenant  he  for  life's  back  slums,  — 
He  comes  to  the  world  as  a  gentleman  comes 

To  a  lodging  ready  furnished. 

And  the  other  sex — the  tender  —  the  fair  — 

Wh;it  wide  reverses  of  fate  are  there  ! 

Whilst  Margaret,  charmed  by  the  Bulbul  rare, 

In  a  garden  of  Gul  reposes, 
Poor  Peggy  hawks  nosegays  from  street  to  street 
Till  —  think  of  that,  who  find  life  so  sweet !  — 

She  hates  the  smell  of  roses  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


SIMON   LEE,    THE  OLD   HUNTSMAN. 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 

Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor  Hall, 
An  old  man  dwells,  —  a  little  man, 

I  've  heard  he  once  was  tall. 
Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 

A  running  huntsman  merry  ; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 

Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee, 
When  Echo  bandied  round  and  round 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 
In  those  proud  days  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage  ; 
To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  Tillage. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  ami  horse  behind  ; 
Ami  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done, 

He  reeled  and  was  stone  blind. 
And  Btill  there'  thing  in  the  world 

At  which  liis  heaii  rejoices  ; 
For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 

I  [e  dearly  Loves  their  voices. 

Bui  0  the  heavy  change  !  —  bereft 
<  m'Ih  alth,  si  rengl  h,fi  iendsand  kindred, see 

Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  lefl 
In  liveried  poverty  : 


His  master 's  dead,  and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor  ; 
Men,  clogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead  ; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick, 

His  body  dwindled  and  awry 
Rests  upon  ankles  swollen  and  thick  ; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 
He  has  no  son,  he  has  no  child  ; 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 
Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 

Upon  the  village  common. 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 

Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 
A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 

Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 
This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 

Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger  ; 
But  what  avails  the  land  to  them 

Which  he  can  till  no  longer  ? 

Oft,  working  by  her  husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do  ; 
For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 
And,  though  yon  with  your  utmost  skill 

From  labor  could  not  wean  them, 
'T  is  little,  very  little,  all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store 

As  he  to  you  will  tell, 
For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 

Do  his  weak  ankles  swell. 
My  gentle  reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  yon  've  waited, 
And  now  I  fear  that  you  exped 

Some  tale  will  be  related. 

0  reader  !  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  thoughl  can  bring, 
0  gentle  reader  !  you  would  find 

A  tale  in  everything. 
What  more  1  have  to  say  is  short, 

And  ymi  must  kindly  take  it  : 
It  is  no  tale  ;  but  should  you  think, 

r.  i  hap  i  a  tale  you  '11  make  it. 

i  Ine  summei  day  1  chanced  to  see 
This  old  man  doing  all  he  could 

To  unearth  the  rool  of  an  old  t  ree, 
A  Btump  of  rotten  wood. 

The  matted  tottered  in  his  hand  ; 

So  vain  was  his  endeavor 

That  at  the  rool  of  the  old  tree 
He  might  have  worked  forever. 


&- 


— EP 


!d6 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


"You're  overtasked,  good  Simon  Lee, 

Give  me  your  tool,"  to  him  I  said  ; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 

Received  my  proffered  aid. 
I  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 

The  tangled  root  I  severed, 
At  which  the  poor  old  man  so  long 

And  vainly  had  endeavored. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 
And  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run 

So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 

—  I  've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning  ; 

Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 

Has  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

William  Wordsworth. 


LONDON   CHURCHES. 

I  stood,  one  Sunday  morning, 
Before  a  large  church  door, 
The  congregation  gathered 
And  carriages  a  score,  — 
From  one  out  stepped  a  lady 
I  oft  had  seen  before. 

Her  hand  was  on  a  prayer-book, 

And  held  a  vinaigrette  ; 

The  sign  of  man's  redemption 

Clear  on  the  book  was  set,  — 

But  above  the  Cross  there  glistened 

A  golden  Coronet. 

For  her  the  obsequious  beadle 
The  inner  door  flung  wide, 
Lightly,  as  up  a  ball-room, 
Her  footsteps  seemed  to  glide,  — 
There  might  be  good  thoughts  in  her 
For  all  her  evil  pride. 

But  after  her  a  woman 
Peeped  wistfully  within, 
On  whose,  wan  face  was  graven 
Life's  hardest  discipline,  — 
The  trace  of  the  sad  trinity 
Of  weakness,  pain,  and  sin. 

The  few  free-seats  wrere  crowded 
Where  she  could  rest  and  pray  ; 
With  her  worn  garb  contrasted 
Each  side  in  fair  array,  — 
"  God's  house  holds  no  poor  sinners," 
She  sighed,  and  crept  away. 

Richard  monckton  Milnes. 


THE   ORPHANS. 

My  chaise  the  village  inn  did  gain, 

Just  as  the  setting  sun's  last  ray 
Tipped  with  refulgent  gold  the  vane 

Of  the  old  church  across  the  way. 

Across  the  way  I  silent  sped, 

The  time  till  supper  to  beguile, 
In  moralizing  o'er  the  dead 

That  mouldered  round  the  ancient  pile. 

There  many  a  humble  green  grave  showed 
Where  want  and  pain  and  toil  did  rest ; 

And  many  a  flattering  stone  I  viewed 
O'er  those  who  once  had  wealth  possest. 

A  faded  beech  its  shadow  brown 

Threw  o'er  a  grave  where  sorrow  slept, 

On  which,  though  scarce  Avith  grass  o'ergrown, 
Two  ragged  children  sat  and  wept. 

A  piece  of  bread  between  them  lay, 

Which  neither  seemed  inclined  to  take, 

And  yet  they  looked  so  much  a  prey 
To  want,  it  made  my  heart  to  ache. 

' '  My  little  children,  let  me  know 

Why  you  in  such  distress  appear, 
And  why  you  wasteful  from  you  throw 

That  bread  which  many  a  one  might  cheer  ? " 

The  little  boy,  in  accents  sweet, 

Replied,  while  tears  each  other  chased,  — 
"  Lady  !  we've  not  enough  to  eat, 

Ah  !  if  we  had,  we  should  not  waste. 

"  But  Sister  Mary  's  naughty  grown, 

And  will  not  eat,  whate'er  I  say, 
Though  sure  I  am  the  bread 's  her  own, 

For  she  has  tasted  none  to-day." 

"  Indeed,"  the  wan,  starved  Mary  said, 
"  Till  Henry  eats,  I  '11  eat  no  more, 

For  yesterday  I  got  some  bread, 

He  's  had  none  since  the  day  before." 

My  heart  did  swell,  my  bosom  heave, 
I  felt  as  though  deprived  of  speech  ; 

Silent  I  sat  upon  the  grave, 

And  clasped  the  clay-cold  hand  of  each. 

With  looks  of  woe  too  sadly  true, 

With  looks  that  spoke  a  grateful  heart, 

The  shivering  boy  then  nearer  drew, 
And  did  his  simple  tale  impart : 

"  Before  my  father  went  away, 

Enticed  by  bad  men  o'er  the  sea, 
Sister  and  I  did  naught  but  play,  — 

We  lived  beside  yon  great  ash-tree. 


•ff 


a- 


POEMS   OF   SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


247 


a 


"  But  then  poor  mother  did  so  cry, 
And  looked  so  changed,  I  cannot  tell ; 

She  told  us  that  she  soon  should  die, 
And  hade  us  love  each  other  well. 

"  She  said  that  when  the  war  was  o'er, 
Perhaps  we  might  our  father  see  ; 

But  if  we  never  saw  him  more, 

That  .God  our  father  then  would  he  ! 

"She  kissed  us  both,  and  then  she  died, 
And  we  no  more  a  mother  have  ; 

Here  many  a  day  we  've  sat  and  cried 
Together  at  poor  mother's  grave. 

"  But  when  my  father  came  not  here, 
I  thought  if  we  could  find  the  sea, 

We  should  be  sure  to  meet  him  there, 
And  once  again  might  happy  be. 

"  We  hand  in  hand  went  many  a  mile, 
And  asked  our  way  of  all  we  met  ; 

And  some  did  sigh,  and  some  did  smile, 
And  we  of  some  did  victuals  get. 

"  But  when  we  reached  the  sea  and  found 
'T  was  one  great  water  round  us  spread, 

We  thought  that  father  must  be  drowned, 
And  cried,  and  wished  we  both  were  dead. 

"  So  we  returned  to  mother's  grave, 
And  only  longed  with  her  to  be  ; 

For  Goody,  when  this  bread  she  gave, 
Said  father  died  beyond  the  sea. 

"Then  since  no  parent  we  have  here, 
We  '11  go  and  search  for  God  around  ; 

Lady,  pray,  can  you  tell  us  where 
That  God,  our  Father,  may  be  found  ? 

"He  lives  in  heaven,  our  mother  said, 
And  Goody  says  that  mother 's  there  ; 

So,  if  she  knows  we  want  his  aid, 

I  think  perhaps  she  '11  send  him  here." 

I  clasped  the  prattlers  to  my  breast, 

Ami  cried,  "Come,  both,  and  live  with  me  ; 

I  '11  clothe  you,  Feed  you,  give  you  rest, 
And  will  a  second  mother  be. 

"  And  God  shall  be  your  Father  still, 
'T  was  he  in  mercy  senl  me  here, 

To  teach  you  to  obey  his  will, 

Your  steps  to  guide,  your  hearts  to  cheer." 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  ORPHAN   BOY'S  TALE. 
Stat,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake, 

And  hear  a  helpless  orphan's  tale  ; 


Ah,  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake,  — 
'T  is  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale  ; 

Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride, 

And  my  brave  father's  hope  and  joy  ; 

But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died, 
And  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy  ! 

Poor,  foolish  child  !  how  pleased  was  I, 

When  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came, 
Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

To  see  the  lighted  windows  flame  ! 
To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought,  — 

She  could  not  bear  to  hear  my  joy  ; 
For  with  my  father's  life  't  was  bought,  — 

And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy  ! 

The  people's  shouts  were  long  and  loud  ; 

My  mother,  shuddering,  closed  her  ears  ; 
"Rejoice  !  rejoice  ! "  still  cried  the  crowd,  - 

My  mother  answered  with  her  tears  ! 
"0,  why  do  tears  steal  down  your  cheek," 

Cried  I,  "  while  others  shout  for  joy  ?  " 
She  kissed  me  ;  and  in  accents  weak, 

She  called  me  her  poor  orphan  boy  ! 

"  What  is  an  orphan  boy  ? "  I  said  ; 

When  suddenly  she  gasped  for  breath, 
And  her  eyes  closed  !  I  shrieked  for  aid, 

But  ah  !  her  eyes  were  closed  in  death. 
My  hardships  since  I  will  not  tell ; 

But  now,  no  more  a  parent's  joy, 
Ah  !  lady,  I  have  learned  too  well 

What  't  is  to  be  an  orphan  boy  ! 

0,  were  I  by  your  bounty  fed  ! 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide ; 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread,  — 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep  ;  what  is  't  you  say  ? 

You'll  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ? 
Look  down,  dear  parents  !  look  and  see 

Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy  ! 

Mrs.  Opib. 


<B~ 


LITTLE  NED. 

An,  that  is  like  a  dream.     It  don't  seem  true  ! 

Father  was  gone,  and  mother  left,  you  see, 

To  work  for  little  brother  Ned  and  me  ; 
And  up  among  the  gloomy  roofs  we  grew,  — 
Locked  in  full  oft,  lest  we  should  wander  out, 

With  nothing  but  a  crust  o'  broad  to  eat. 
While  mother  chared  for  poor  folk  round  about, 

Or  sold  cheap  odds  and  ends  from  street  to  street. 
Yet,  Parson,  there  were  pleasures  fresh  and  fair, 
To  make  the  time  pass  happily  up  there,  — 
A  Bteamboal  going  past  upon  the  tide, 

A  pigeon  lighting  on  the  roof  close  by, 


-ff 


248 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


ft 


The  sparrows  teaching  little  ones  to  fly, 
The  small  white  moving  clouds,  that  we  espied, 
And  thought  were  living,  in  the  hit  of  sky,  — 
With  sights  like  these  right  glad  were  Ned  and 

I; 

Ami  then  we  loved  to  hear  the  soft  rain  calling, 

Pattering,  pattering,  upon  the  tiles, 
And  it  was  fine  to  see  the  still  snow  falling, 

Making  the  house-tops  white  for  miles  on  miles, 
And  catch  it  in  our  little  hands  in  play, 
And  laugh  to  feel  it  melt  and  slip  away  ! 
But  I  was  six,  and  Ned  was  only  three, 
And  thinner,  weaker,  wearier  than  me  ; 

And  one  cold  day,  in  winter-time,  when  mother 
Had  gone  away  into  the  snow,  and  we 

Sat  close  for  warmth  and  cuddled  one  another, 
He  put  his  little  head  upon  my  knee, 
And  went  to  sleep,  and  would  not  stir  a  limb, 

But  looked  quite  strange  and  old  ; 
And  when  I  shook  him,  kissed  him,  spoke  to  him, 

He  smiled,  and  grew  so  cold. 
Then  I  was  frightened,  and  cried  out,  and  none 

Could  hear  me  ;  while  I  sat  and  nursed  his  head, 
"Watching  the  whitened  window,  while  the  sun 

Peeped  in  upon  his  face,  and  made  it  red. 
And  I  began  to  sob,  —  till  mother  came, 
Knelt  down,  and  screamed,  and  named  the  good 
God's  name, 

And  told  me  he  was  dead. 
And  when  she  put  his  nightgown  on,  and,  weep- 
ing. 

Placed  him  among  the  rags  upon  his  bed, 
I  thought  that  Brother  Ned  was  only  sleeping, 

And  took  his  little  hand,  and  felt  no  fear. 

But  when  the   place  grew  gray  and  cold  and 
drear, 
And  theroundmoon  over  the  roofs  came  creeping, 

And  put  a  silver  shade 

All  round  the  chilly  bed  where  he  was  laid, 

1  cried,  and  was  afraid. 

Robert  Buchanan. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !  " 

' '  Work  !  work  !  work  ! 

AVhile  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof  ! 
And  work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 


It 's,  0,  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ! 
Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  !     • 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam,  — 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ! 

"  0  men  with  sisters  dear  ! 

O  men  with  mothers  and  wives  ! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,  — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt  ! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death,  — 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own,  — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 
0  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  1 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags, 
That  shattered  roof —  and  this  naked  floor  — 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  ! 
Work  —  work  —  work 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band,  — 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

In  the  dull  December  light ! 
And  work  —  work  —  work 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ! 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 


ta- 


■4 


a- 


POEMS   OF  SORROW  AND   ADVERSITY. 


249 


ft 


"  0  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet,  — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ! 
For  only 'one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  0  but  for  one  short  hour,  — 

A  respite,  however  brief  ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief  ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  ! " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch  — 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich !  — 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt  !  " 

Thomas  hood. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen  wanders  up  and 

down  the  street ; 
The  snow  is  on  her  yellow  hair,  the  frost  is  on 

her  feet. 
The  rows  of  long,  dark  houses  without  look  cold 

and  damp, 
By  the  struggling  of  the  moonbeam,  by  the  flicker 

of  the  lamp. 
The  clouds  ride  fast  as  horses,  the  wind  is  from 

the  north, 
But  no  one  cares  for  Gretchen,  and  no  one  looketh 

forth. 
Within  those  dark,  damp  houses  are  merry  faces 

1  night, 
And  happy  hearts  are  watching  out  the  old  year's 

latest  night. 

With  the  little  box  of  matches  she  could  not  sell 

all  day, 
And  the  thin,  tattered  mantle  the  wind  blows 

every  way, 
She   clingeth  to  the  railing,  she  shivers  in  the 

gloom, — 
There  are  parents  sitting  snugly  by  the  firelight 

in  the  room  ; 
And  children  with  grave  faces  are  whispering  one 

another 


Of  presents  for  the  new  year,  for  father  or  for 

mother. 
But  no  one  talks  to  Gretchen,  and  no  one  hears 

her  speak, 
No  breath  of  little  whisperers  comes  warmly  to 

her  cheek. 

•  •  ■  •  • 

Her  home  is  cold  and  desolate  ;  no  smile,  no  food, 

no  fire, 
But    children    clamorous    for    bread,    and    an 

impatient  sire. 
So  she  sits  down  in  an  angle  where  two  great 

houses  meet, 
And  she  curie th  up  beneath  her  for  warmth  her 

little  feet  ; 
And  she  looketh  on  the  cold  wall,  and  on  the 

colder  sky, 
And  wonders  if  the  little  stars  are  bright  fires  up 

on  high. 
She  hears  the  clock  strike  slowly,  up  in  a  church- 
tower, 
With  such  a  sad  and  solemn  tone,  telling  the 

midnight  hour. 

And  she  remembered  her  of  tales  her  mother  used 

to  tell, 
And  of  the  cradle-songs  she  sang,  when  summer's 

twilight  fell  ; 
Of  good  men  and  of  angels,  and  of  the  Holy 

Child, 
Who  was  cradled  in  a  manger  when  winter  was 

most  wild ; 
Who  was  poor,  and  cold,  and  hungry,  and  deso- 
late and  lone  ; 
And  she  thought  the  song  had  told  he  was  ever 

with  his  own  ; 
And  all  the  poor  and  hungry  and  forsaken  ones 

are  his,  — 
"  How  good  of  him  to  look  on  me  in  such  a  place 

as  this  ! " 

Colder  it  grows  and  colder,  but  she  does  not  feel 

it  now, 
For  the  pressure  on  her  heart,  and  the  weight 

upon  her  brow  ; 
But  she  struck  one  little  match  on  the  wall  so 

cold  and  hare, 
That  she  might  look  around  her,  and  see  if  he 

were  there. 

There  were  blood-drops  on  his  forehead,  a  spear- 
wound  in  his  side, 

And  cruel  nail-prints  in  his  feet,  andin  his  hands 
spread  wide. 

And  he  looked  upon  her  gently,  and  she  felt  that 
he  had  known 

Pain,  hunger,  cold,  and  sorrow,  —  ay,  equal  to 
her  own. 


b± 


-ff 


250 


POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  ADVERSITY. 


-9" 


And  he  pointed  to  the  laden  board  and  to  the 

Christmas  tree, 
Then  up  to  the  cold  sky,  and  said,  ' '  Will  Gretchen 

come  with  me  ?  " 
The  poor  child  felt  her  pulses  fail,  she  felt  her 

eyeballs  swim, 
And  a  ringing  sound  was  in   her  ears,  like  her 

dead  mother's  hymn  : 
And  she  folded  both  her  thin  white  hands  and 

turned  from  that  bright  board, 
And  from  the  golden  gifts,  and  said,  ' '  With  thee, 

with  thee,  0  Lord  !  " 
The  chilly  winter  morning  breaks  up  in  the  dull 

skies 
On  the  city  wrapt  in  vapor,  on  the   spot  where 

Gretchen  lies. 

In  her  scant  and  tattered  garments,  with  her  back 

against  the  wall, 
She  sitteth  cold  and  rigid,  she  answers  to  no  call. 
They  have  lifted'her  up  fearfully,  they  shuddered 

as  they  said, 
"  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  night !  the  child  is  frozen 

dead." 
The   angels   sang  their  greeting  for  one  more 

redeemed  from  sin  ; 
Men  said,  "  It  was  a  bitter  night ;  would  no  one 

let  her  in  ?  " 
And  they  shivered  as  they  spoke  of  her,    and 

sighed.     They  could  not  see 
How  much  of  happiness   there   was  after  that 

misery. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS. 

"  Drowned  !  drowned  1 " —  HAMLET. 

One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ! 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements, 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing ! 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ! 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly,  — 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  ; 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 


Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 
Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers,  — 
One  of  Eve's  family,  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb,  — 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses,  — 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister? 
Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
0,  it  was  pitiful  ! 
Near  a  Avhole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed,  — 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 
With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver  ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  ; 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurled  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, — 
No  matter  how  coldly 


tj" 


-ff 


a- 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


251 


-a 


The  rough  river  ran  — 
Over  the  brink  of  it ! 
Picture  it,  —  think  of  it ! 
Dissolute  man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ! 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs,  frigidly, 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  ! 
Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest  ! 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast  ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


BEAUTIFUL   SNOW. 

0  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 
Filling  the  sky  and  the  earth  below  ! 
Over  the  house-tops,  over  the  street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet, 
Dancing, 
Flirting, 

Skimming  along. 
Beautiful  snow  !  it  can  do  nothing  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek  ; 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome  freak. 
Beautiful  snow,  from  the  heavens  above, 
Pure  as  an  angel  and  fickle  as  love  ! 

0  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  ! 
Il<>«  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go  ! 
Whirling  about  in  its  maddening  fun, 
It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 


Lau 


eiimg, 

Hurrying  by, 


It  lights  up  the  face  and  it  sparkles  the  eye  ; 
And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound, 
Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is  alive,  and  its  heart  in  a  glow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song  ! 
How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by,  — 
Bright  for  a  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing  they  go 
Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow  : 
Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 
To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing  by  ; 
To  be  trampled  and  track  ed  by  the  thousan  ds  of  feet 
Till  it  blends  with  the  horrible  filth  in  the  street. 

Once  I  was  pure  as  the  snow,  —  but  I  fell : 
Fell,  like  the  snow-flakes,  from  heaven  —  to  hell : 
Fell,  to  be  tramped  as  the  filth  of  the  street  : 
Fell,  to  be  scoffed,  to  be  spit  on,  and  beat. 
Pleading, 
Cursing, 

Dreading  to  die, 
Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy, 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread, 
Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead. 
Merciful  God  !  have  I  fallen  so  low  ? 
And  yet  I  was  once  like  this  beautiful  snow  ! 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
Wit  li  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a  heart  like  its  glow  ; 
Once  I  was  loved  for  my  innocent  grace,  — 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my  face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 
God,  and  myself  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a  wide  sweep,  lest  I  wander  too  nigh  ; 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know 
There  is  nothing  that's  purr  but  the  beautiful  snow. 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  snow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go  ! 
How  strange  it  would  be,  when  the  night  comes 

again, 
If  the  snow  and  the  ice  struck  my  desperate  brain  ! 
Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone, 
Too  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my  moan 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 
Gone  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow's  coming  down  ; 
To  lie  ami  to  die  in  my  terrible  woe, 
With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  the  beautiful  snow  ! 


JAMU3  w.  WATSON. 


&~ 


-ff 


a 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


■a 


THE   PAUPER'S   DEATH-BED. 

Tread  softly,  —  bow  the  head,  — 
In  reverent  silence  how,  — 

No  passing  hell  doth  toll, 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger  !  however  great, 
With  lowly  reverence  how  ; 

There  's  one  in  that  poor  shed  — 

One  by  that  paltry  bed  — 
Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo  !  Death  doth  keep  his  state. 

Enter,  no  crowds  attend  ; 

Enter,  no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold, 
No  smiling  courtiers  tread  ; 

One  silent  woman  stands, 

Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound,  — 

An  infant  wail  alone  ; 
A  sob  suppressed,  —  again 
That  short  deep  gasp,  and  then  — 

The  parting  groan. 

0  change  !  0  wondrous  change  ! 

Burst  are  the  prison  bars,  — 
This  moment  there  so  low, 
So  agonized,  and  now 

Beyond  the  stars. 

0  change  !  stupendous  change  I 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod  ; 

The  sun  eternal  breaks, 

The  new  immortal  wakes,  — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 

Caroline  Bowles. 


THE  PAUPER'S   DRIVE. 

There  \s  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly  round 
trot,  — 

To  the  churchyard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot ; 

The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no  springs  ; 

And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  mad  driver  sings : 
Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stoives  I 
He  's  only  a  pauper  vjJwm  nobody  owns  I 

0,  where  are  the  mourners  ?    Alas !  there  are  none ; 
He  has  leftnotagapinthe  world,  nowhe'sgone,  — 


Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man  ; 

To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you  can  : 
Rattle  his  bones  over  tlu.  stones  1 
He 's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  I 

What  a  jolting,  and  creaking,  and  splashing,  and 

din  ! 
The  whip,  how  it  cracks  !  and  the  wheels,  how  they 

spin ! 
How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o'er  the  hedges  is 

hurled  !  — ■ 
The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world  ! 
Rattle  his  bones  over  tJie  stones  I 
He  's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  1 

Poor  pauper  defunct  !  he  has  made  some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he 's  stretched  in  a  coach  ! 
He 's  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast : 

Rattle  his  bones  over  tJw  stones  ! 

He 's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  I 

You  bumpkins  !   who  stare  at  your  brother  con- 
veyed, 
Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid  ! 
And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you  're 

laid  low, 
You've  a  chance  to  the  grave  like  a  gemman  to  go  ! 
Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 
He 's  only  a  pauper  whom,  nobody  owns  / 

But  a  trace  to  this  strain  ;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad, 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end, 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend ! 

Rear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones  I 

Tlwugh  a  pauper, he 's  one  whom  his  Maker  yet 

owns  1  THOMAS  NOEL. 


FOR  A'   THAT  AND  A'   THAT. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

Wha  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by  ; 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that,       , 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that  ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp,  — 

The  man 's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine,  ■ 

A  man 's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that  ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 


tfi- 


& 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


a 


253 


Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that,  — 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He  's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that ; 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might,  — 

Quid  faith,  he  maunna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that ; 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may,  — 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that,  — 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It  's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that,  — 
When  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 
.  Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that ! 

Robert  Burns. 


SONNET. 

A  good  that  never  satisfies  the  mind, 

A  beauty  fading  like  the  April  flowers, 

A  sweet  with  floods  of  gall  that  runs  combined, 

.V  pleasure  passing  ere  in  thought  made  ours, 

An  honor  that  more  fickle  is  than  wind, 

A  glory  at  opinion's  frown  that  lowers, 

A'treasury  which  bankrupt  time  devours, 

A  knowledge  than  grave  ignorance  more  blind, 

A  vain  delight  our  equals  to  command, 

A  style  of  greatness,  in  effect  a  dream, 

A  swelling  thought  of  holding  sea  and  land, 

A  servile  lot,  decked  with  a  pompous  name,  — 

Are  the  strange  ends  we  toil  fur  here  below, 

Till  wisest  death  make  us  our  errors  know. 

William  Drummond. 


THE   DIRGE. 

What  is  the  existence  of  man's  lit'.' 
But  open  war,  or  slumbered  strife) 

Where  sickness  to  his  sense  presents 

The  combat  of  the  elements  ; 

And  uever  feels  a  perfect  peace, 

Till  dentil's  cold  hand  signs  his  release, 

It  is  a  storm  where  the  ho1  blood 

Chit  vies  in  rage  the  boiling  Hood; 


And  each  loud  passion  of  the  mind 
Is  like  a  furious  gust  of  wind, 
Which  bears  his  bark  with  many  a  wave, 
Till  he  casts  anchor  in  the  grave. 

It  is  a  flower  which  buds  and  grows 
And  withers  as  the  leaves  disclose  ; 
Whose  spring  and  fall  faint  seasons  keep, 
Like  tits  of  waking  before  sleep  ; 
Then  shrinks  into  that  fatal  mould 
Where  its  first  being  was  enrolled. 

It  is  a  dream  whose  seeming  truth 
Is  moralized  in  age  and  youth  ; 
Where  all  the  comforts  he  can  share 
As  wandering  as  his  fancies  are  ; 
Till  in  the  mist  of  dark  decay 
The  dreamer  vanish  quite  away. 

It  is  a  dial  which  points  out 
The  sunset  as  it  moves  about ; 
And  shadows  out  in  lines  of  night 
The  subtle  stages  of  time's  flight, 
Till  all-obscuring  earth  hath  laid 
The  body  in  perpetual  shade. 

It  is  a  weary  interlude, 
Which  doth  short  joys,  long  woes  include  ; 
The  world  the  stage,  the  prologue  tears, 
The  acts  vain  hopes  and  varied  fears  ; 
The  scene  shuts  up  with  loss  of  breath, 
And  leaves  no  epilogue  but  death. 

Henry  King. 


THE   END    OF   THE   RLAY. 

The  play  is  done,  —  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  tin'  prompter's  bell; 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task  ; 

And,  when  he  's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  tin'  mask, 

A  face  that  's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yel  the  evening  ends,  — 
Let 's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme  ; 

And  pledge  a   hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  < Ihristmas  time  ; 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts 

That   fate  erelong  shall  bill  you  play  ; 
Good  nighl  !       with  honest,  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway  ! 

Good  night  !       I  'd  say  the  griefs,  the  joys, 
.lust   hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 

'lie'  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age  ; 


B-- 


-4? 


254 


POEMS   OF   SORROW   AND   ADVERSITY. 


-a 


I  'd  say  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men,  - 

Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 
At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I  'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  hoys,  — 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys  ; 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  love  and  truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I  'd  say  how  fate  may  change  and  shift,  — 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift  : 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  ! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ; 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  willed  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That 's  free  to  give  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit,  — 
Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state  ? 

His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 
Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 

Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 
To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 


Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we  '11  kneel, 
Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed  ; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen  !  —  whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  awful  will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize,  — 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  G  od,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young  ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays  ; ) 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days  ; 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead,  — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men  ! 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth  ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health  and  love  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still,  — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


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POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


MY  GOD,    I   LOVE  THEE. 

My  God,  I  love  thee  !  not  because 

I  hope  for  heaven  thereby  ; 
Nor  because  those  who  love  thee  not 

Must  burn  eternally. 

Thou,  0  my  Jesus,  thou  didst  me 

Upon  the  cross  embrace  ! 
For  me  didst  bear  the  nails  and  spear, 

And  manifold  disgrace. 

And  griefs  and  torments  numberless, 

And  sweat  of  agony, 
Yea,  death  itself,  —  and  all  for  one 

That  was  thine  enemy. 

Then  why,  0  blessed  Jesus  Christ, 

Should  I  not  love  thee  well  ? 
Not  for  the  hope  of  winning  heaven, 

Nor  of  escaping  hell  ! 

Not  with  the  hope  of  gaining  aught, 

Not  seeking  a  reward  ; 
But  as  thyself  hast  loved  me, 

0  everlasting  Lord  ! 

E'en  so  I  love  thee,  and  will  love, 
And  in  thy  praise  will  sing,  — 

Solely  because  thou  art  my  God, 
And  my  eternal  King. 

ST.  Francis  Xavier  (Latin).    Translation 
of  Edward  Caswell. 


EMPLOYMENT. 

Tf  ;is  :i  flowre  d<>tli  spread  and  die, 
Thou  wouldsl  extend  me  to  some  good, 
Before  I  were  by  frost's  extremitie 

N [pi  in  t lie  bud, 

The  sweetnesse  and  the  praise  were  thine  ; 
Bui  the  extension  and  the  room 
Which  in  thy  garland  I  should  fill  were  mine 
At  thy  great  doom. 
17 


For  as  thou  dost  impart  thy  grace, 
The  greater  shall  our  glorie  be. 
The  measure  of  our  joyes  is  in  this  place, 
The  stuffe  with  thee. 

Let  me  not  languish,  then,  and  spend 
A  life  as  barren  to  thy  praise 
As  is  the  dust,  to  which  that  life  doth  tend, 
But  with  delaies. 

All  things  are  busie  ;  only  I 
Neither  bring  hony  with  the  bees, 
Nor  flowres  to  make  that,  nor  the  husbandrie 
To  water  these. 

I  am  no  link  of  thy  great  chain, 

But  all  my  companie  is  a  weed. 

Lord,  place  me  in  thy  consort  ;  give  one  strain 

To  my  poore  reed. 

George  Herbert. 


THE   NEW  JERUSALEM. 

0  mother  dear,  Jerusalem, 
When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 

When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end,  - 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see  ? 

0  happy  harbor  of  God's  saints  ! 

0  sweet  and  pleasant  soil  ! 
In  thee  no  sorrow  can  be  found, 

Nor  grief,  nor  care,  nor  toil. 

No  dimly  cloud  o'ershadows  thee, 
Nor  gloom,  nor  darksome  night ; 

But  eveiy  soul  shines  as  the  sun, 
For  God  himself  gives  light. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stone, 
Thy  bulwarks  diamond-square, 

Thy  gates  are  all  of  orient  pearl,  — 
6  God  !  if  1  were  there  ! 

o  my  sweel  home,  Jerusalem! 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see?  — 
The  King  silting  upon  thy  throne, 

And,  thy  felicity  / 


T? 


a- 


258 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


Thy  gardens  and  thy  goodly  walks 

Continually  are  green, 
"Where  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 

As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 

Quite  through  the  streets  with  pleasing  sound 

The  flood  of  life  doth  flow  ; 
And  on  the  hanks,  on  every  side, 

The  trees  of  life  do  grow. 

These  trees  each  month  yield  ripened  fruit ; 

Forevermore  they  spring, 
And  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 

To  thee  their  honors  hring. 

Jerusalem,  God's  dwelling-place 
Full  sore  I  long  to  see  ; 

0  that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 
That  I  might  dwell  in  thee  ! 

1  long  to  see  Jerusalem, 
The  comfort  of  us  all ; 

For  thou  art  fair  and  beautiful,  — 
None  ill  can  thee  befall. 

No  candle  needs,  no  moon  to  shine, 

No  glittering  star  to  light ; 
For  Christ  the  King  of  Righteousness 

Forever  shineth  bright. 

0,  passing  happy  were  my  state, 

Might  I  be  worthy  found 
To  wait  upon  my  God  and  King, 

His  praises  there  to  sound  ! 

Jerusalem  !     Jerusalem  ! 

Thy  joys  fain  would  I  see  ; 

Come  quickly,  Lord,  and  end  my  grief, 

And  take  me  home  to  thee  ! 

David  Dickson. 


DROP,    DROP,    SLOW  TEARS. 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears, 

And  bathe  those  beauteous  feet 
"Which  brought  from  heaven 

The  news  and  prince  of  peace  1 
Cease  not,  -wet  eyes, 

His  mercies  to  entreat ; 
To  cry  for  vengeance 

Sin  doth  never  cease  ; 
In  your  deep  floods 

Drown  all  my  faults  and  fears  ; 

Nor  let  his  eye 

See  sin  but  through  my  tears. 

phineas  Fletcher. 


DARKNESS   IS   THINNING. 

Darkness  is  thinning  ;  shadows  are  retreating  ; 
Morning  and  light  are  coming  in  their  beauty. 
Suppliant  seek  we,  with  an  earnest  outcry, 
God  the  Almighty  ! 

So  that  our  Master,  having  mercy  on  us, 
May  repel  languor,  may  bestow  salvation, 
Granting  us,  Father,  of  thy  loving  kindness 
Glory  hereafter  ! 

This  of  his  mercy,  ever-blessed  Godhead, 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit,  give  us,  — 
"Whom  through  the  wide  world  celebrate  forever 
Blessing  and  glory  ! 
St.  Gregory  the  Great  (Latin).    Translation 

Of  J.   M.   NEALE. 


I   LOVE,    AND   HAVE   SOME   CAUSE  — 

I  love,  and  have  some  cause  to  love,  the  earth,  — 
She  is  my  Maker's  creature,  therefore  good ; 

She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth  ; 
She  is  my  tender  nurse,  she  gives  me  food  : 
But  what 's  a  creature,  Lord,  compared  with 

thee? 
Or  what 's  my  mother  or  my  nurse  to  me  ? 

I  love  the  air,  —  her  dainty  sweets  refresh 
My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  invite  me ; 

Her  shrill-mouthed  choir  sustain  me  with  their 
flesh, 
And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  delight  me  : 
But  what 's  the  air,  or  all  the  sweets  that  she 
Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  comj)ared  to  thee  ? 

I  love  the  sea,  —  she  is  my  fellow-creature, 
My  careful  purveyor  ;  she  provides  me  store  ; 

She  walls  me  round  ;  she  makes  my  diet  greater  ; 
She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a  foreign  shore  : 
But,  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compared  with  thee, 
What  is  the  ocean  or  her  wealth  to  me  ? 

To  heaven's  high  city  I  direct  my  journey, 

Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine  eye,  — 
Mine  eye,  by  contemplation's  great  attorney, 
Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the  sky  : 
But  what  is  heaven,  great  God,  compared  to 

thee? 
Without  thy  presence,  heaven  's  no  heaven  to 
me. 

Without  thy  presence,  earth  gives  no  refection  ; 

Without  thy  presence,  sea  affords  no  treasure  ; 
Without  thy  presence,  air 's  a  rank  infection  ; 

Without  thy  presence,  heaven  's  itself  no 
pleasure  : 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


259      I 


If  not  possessed,  if  not  enjoyed  in  thee, 
What 's  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  heaven  to  me  ? 

The  highest  honors  that  the  world  can  boast 
Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire  ; 

The  brightest  beams  of  glory  are,  at  most, 
But  dying  sparkles  of  thy  living  fire  ; 
The  loudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle  be 
But  nightly  glow-worms  if  compared  to  thee. 

Without  thy  presence,  wealth  is  bags  of  cares  ; 

Wisdom  but  folly  ;  joy,  disquiet, 'sadness  ; 
Friendship  is  treason,  and  delights  are  snares  ; 

Pleasures  but  pain,  and  mirth  but   pleasing 
madness,  — 

Without  thee,  Lord,  things  be  not  what  they  be, 

Nor  have  their  being,  when  compared  with  thee. 

In  having  all  things,  and  not  thee,  what  have  I  ? 

Not  having  thee,  what  have  my  labors  got  ? 
Let  me  enjoy  but  thee,  what  further  crave  I  ? 
And  having  thee  alone,  what  have  I  not  ? 
I  wish  nor  sea,  nor  land,  nor  would  I  be 
Possessed  of  heaven,  heaven  unpossessed   of 
thee  ! 

Francis  Quarles. 


TWO    WENT    UP  TO    THE    TEMPLE  TO 
PRAY. 

Two  went  to  pray  ?     0,  rather  say, 
One  went  to  brag,  the  other  to  pray  ; 

One  stands  up  close  and  treads  on  high, 
Where  the  other  dares  not  lend  his  eye  ; 

One  nearer  to  God's  altar  trod, 

The  other  to  the  altar's  God. 

Richard  Crashaw. 


THE   VALEDICTION. 

The  silly  lambs  to-day 
Pleasantly  skip  and  play, 
Whom  butchers  mean  to  slay, 

Perhaps  to-morrow  ; 
In  a  more  brutish  sort 
Do  can-less  sinners  sport, 
Or  in  dead  sleep  still  snort, 

As  near  to  sorrow  ; 
Till  life,  not  well  begun, 

Be  sadly  ended, 
And  the  web  they  have  spun 

Can  ne'er  be  mended. 

What  is  t In-  time  that's  gone, 
And  what  is  that  to  come  ? 
Is  it  not  now  as  none  ? 

The  present  stays  not. 


Time  posteth,  0,  how  fast  ! 
Unwelcome  death  makes  haste  ; 
None  can  call  back  what 's  past,  — - 

Judgment  delays  not ; 
Though  God  bring  in  the  light, 

Sinners  awake  not,  — 
Because  hell 's  out  of  sight, 

They  sin  forsake  not. 

Man  walks  in  a  vain  show  ; 
They  know,  yet  will  not  know  ; 
Sit  still  when  they  should  go,  — 

But  run  for  shadows, 
While  they  might  taste  and  know 
The  living  streams  that  flow, 
And  crop  the  flowers  that  grow, 

In  Christ's  sweet  meadows. 
Life  's  better  slept  away 

Than  as  they  use  it ; 

In  sin  and  drunken  play 

Vain  men  abuse  it. 

Richard  Baxter. 


THE   BIRD   LET   LOOSE. 

The  bird  let  loose  in  eastern  skies, 

When  hastening  fondly  home, 
Ne'er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor  flies 

Where  idle  warblers  roam  ; 
But  high  she  shoots  through  air  and  light, 

Above  all  low  delay, 
Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her  flight, 

Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 

So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  care 

And  stain  of  passion  free, 
Aloft,  through  Virtue's  purer  air, 

To  hold  my  course  to  thee  ! 
No  sin  to  cloud,  no  lure  to  stay 

My  soul,  as  home  she  springs  ;  — 
Thy  sunshine  on  her  joyful  way, 

Thy  freedom  in  her  wings  ! 

THOMAS   MOORH. 


THE   PILGRIMAGE. 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet, 
My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon  ; 
My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet  ; 

My  bottle  of  salvation  ; 
My  gown  of  glory,  hope's  true  gauge, 
And  thus  1  '11  take  my  pilgrimage  ! 
Blood  must  be  my  body's  'balmer, 
No  other  balm  will  there  be  given  : 
"Whilst  my  soul,  like  quiet  palmer, 
Travelleth  towards  the  kind  of  Heaven  ; 


B- 


-ff 


^(30 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


ft 


Over  the  silver  mountains 

"Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains. 

There  will  I  kiss  the  bowl  of  bliss, 

Ami  drink  mine  everlasting  till 

Upon  every  milken  hill. 

My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before, 

But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 

Then  by  that  happy,  blissful  day, 

Mure  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see, 

That  have  east  off  their  rags  of  clay, 

And  walk  apparelled  fresh  like  me. 

I  '11  take  them  first  to  quench  their  thirst, 

And  taste  of  nectar's  suckets 

At  those  clear  wells  where  sweetness  dwells 

Drawn  up  by  saints  in  crystal  buckets. 

And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we 

Are  filled  with  immortality, 

Then  the  blest  paths  we  '11  travel, 

Strewed  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel,  — 

Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  floors, 

High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  bowers. 

From  thence  to  Heaven's  bribeless  hall, 

Where  no  corrupted  voices  brawl ; 

No  conscience  molten  into  gold, 

No  forged  accuser,  bought  or  sold, 

No  cause  deferred,  no  vain-spent  journey, 

For  there  Christ  is  the  King's  Attorney  ; 

Who  pleads  for  all  without  degrees, 

And  he  hath  angels,  but  no  fees  ; 

And  when  the  grand  twelve-million  jury 

Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury, 

'Gainst  our  souls  black  verdicts  give, 

Christ  pleads  his  death,  and  then  we  live. 

Be  thou  my  speaker,  taintless  pleader, 

Unblotted  lawyer,  true  proceeder  ! 

Thou  giv'st  salvation  even  for  alms,  — 

Not  with  a  bribed  lawyer's  palms. 

And  this  is  mine  eternal  plea 

To  Him  that  made  heaven,  earth,  and  sea, 

That  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon, 

And  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon, 

Just  at  the  stroke  when  my  veins  start  and 

spread, 

Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head  : 

Then  am  I,  like  a  palmer,  fit 

To  tread  those  blest  paths  which  before  I  writ. 

Of  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell, 

Who  oft  doth  think,  must  needs  die  well. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


A  TRUE   LENT. 

Is  this  a  fast,  — to  keep 
The  larder  lean, 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  ? 


Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish  ? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour, 

Or  ragged  to  go, 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour  ? 

No  !  't  is  a  fast  to  dole- 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 
And  meat, 
Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate 
And  hate,  — 
To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent ; 
To  starve  thy  sin, 
Not  bin,  — 
And  that 's  to  keep  thy  lent. 

Robert  Herrick. 


I    WOULD     I    WERE    AN     EXCELLENT 
DIVINE  — 

I  would  I  were  an  excellent  divine 

That  had  the  Bible  at  my  fingers'  ends  ; 

That  men  might  hear  out  of  this  mouth  of  mine 
How  God  doth  make  his  enemies  his  friends  ; 

Rather  than  with  a  thundering  and  long  prayer 

Be  led  into  presumption,  or  despair. 

This  would  I  be,  and  would  none  other  be, 
But  a  religious  servant  of  my  God  ; 

And  know  there  is  none  other  God  but  he, 
And  willingly  to  suffer  mercy's  rod,  — 

Joy  in  his  grace,  and  live  but  in  his  love, 

And  seek  my  bliss  but  in  the  world  above. 

And  I  wotfld  frame  a  kind  of  faithful  prayer, 
For  all  estates  within  the  state  of  grace, 

That  careful  love  might  never  know  despair, 
Nor  servile  fear  might  faithful  love  deface  ; 

And  this  would  I  both  day  and  night  devise 

To  make  my  humble  spirit's  exercise. 

And  I  would  read  the  rules  of  sacred  life  ; 

Persuade  the  troubled  soul  to  patience  ; 
The  husband  care,  and  comfort  to  the  wife, 

To  child  and  servant  due  obedience  ; 
Faith  to  the  friend,  and  to  the  neighbor  peace, 
That  love  might  Live,  and  quarrels  all  might  cease. 


a 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION". 


•a 


261 


Prayer  for  the  health  of  all  that  are  diseased, 
Confession  unto  all  that  are  convicted, 

And  patience  unto  all  that  are  displeased, 
And  comfort  unto  all  that  are  afflicted, 

And  mercy  unto  all  that  have  offended, 

And  grace  to  all,  that  all  may  be  amended. 

Nicholas  Breton. 


ADAM'S  MORNING  HYMN  IN  PARADISE. 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty,  thine  this  universal  frame, 
Thus  wondrous  fair  ;  thyself  how  wondrous  then  ! 
Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works  ;  yet  these  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 
Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels  ;  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
Circle  his  throne  rejoicing  ;  ye  in  Heaven, 
On  earth  join,  all  ye  creatures,  to  extol 
Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end. 
Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 
If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 
Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling 

morn 
With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere, 
While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 
Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul, 
Acknowledge  him  thy  greater  ;  sound  his  praise 
In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st, 
And  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou 

fall'st. 
Moon,  that  now  meets  the  orient  sun,  now  fliest, 
With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  their  orb  that  flies, 
And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires  that  move 
In  mystic  dunce  not  without  song,  resound 
His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light. 
Air,  am!  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 
of  Nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 
Perpetual  circle,  multiform,  and  mix 
And  nourish  all  things,  lei  your  ceaseless  change 
Vary  in  our  greal  Maker  still  new  praise. 
Ye  mists  ami  exhalations,  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honor  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise. 
Whether  to  deci  with  clouds  the  uncolored  sky, 
Or  we1  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 
Rising  or  falling,  still  advance  his  praise. 
His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye 

pines, 

With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble,  as  ye  How, 


Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 
Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls  ;  ye  birds, 
That  singing  up  to  Heaven-gate  ascend, 
Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 
Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 
The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep, 
Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even, 
To  hill  or  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade, 
Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 
Hail,  universal  Lord  !  be  bounteous  still 
To  give  us  only  good  ;  and  if  the  night 
Have  gathered  aught  of  evil,  or  concealed, 
Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark. 

Milton. 


PRAISE. 


To  write  a  verse  or  two  is  all  the  praise 
That  I  can  raise  ; 
Mend  my  estate  in  any  wayes, 

Thou  shalt  have  more. 

I  go  to  church  ;  help  me  to  wings,  and  I 
Will  thither  flie  ; 
Or,  if  I  mount  unto  the  skie, 
I  will  do  more. 

Man  is  all  weaknesse  :  there  is  no  such  thing 
As  Prince  or  King  : 
His  arm  is  short ;  yet  with  a  sling 
He  may  do  more. 

A  herb  destilled,  and  drunk ,  may  dwell  next  doore, 
On  the  same  floore, 
To  a  brave  soul  :    Exalt  the  poore, 
They  can  do  more. 

0,  raise  me  then  !  poore  bees,  that  work  all  day, 

Sting  my  delay, 

Who  have  a  work,  as  well  as  they, 

And  much,  much  more. 

George  Herbert. 


UP  HILL. 

Does  the  road  wind  up  hill  all  the  way  ? 

Yes,  to  Hie  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day  ? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

lint  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin? 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face  ?  >■ 

You  cannot  miss  t/uit  inn. 

Shall  1  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 
Those  who  lutve  gone  before. 


tf 


a- 


2G2 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


--a 


Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight  ? 
They  -will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

0/ labor  you  shall  find  tlie  sum. 
"Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


TO    HEAVEN    APPROACHED    A   SUFI 
SAINT. 

To  heaven  approached  a  Sufi  Saint, 
From  groping  in  the  darkness  late, 

And,  tapping  timidly  and  faint, 
Besought  admission  at  God's  gate. 

Said  God,  "  Who  seeks  to  enter  here  ? " 
"  'T  is  I,  dear  Friend,"  the  Saint  replied, 

And  trembling  much  with  hope  and  fear. 
"  If  it  be  thou,  without  abide." 

Sadly  to  earth  the  poor  Saint  turned, 
To  bear  the  scourging  of  life's  rods  ; 

But  aye  his  heart  within  him  yearned 
To  mix  and  lose  its  love  in  God's. 

He  roamed  alone  through  weary  years, 
By  cruel  men  still  scorned  and  mocked, 

Until  from  faith's  pure  fires  and  tears 
Again  he  rose,  and  modest  knocked. 

Asked  God,  "  Who  now  is  at  the  door  ?" 

"  It  is  thyself,  beloved  Lord," 
Answered  the  Saint,  in  doubt  no  more, 

But  clasped  and  rapt  in  his  reward. 

DsCHELLALEDniN  Ru.MI  (Persian).     Translation 
of  William  R.  Alger. 


THE  DYING   CHRISTIAN  TO   HIS  SOUL. 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame  ! 
Quit,  0,  quit  this  mortal  frame  ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 
0  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying  ! 
Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  Let  me  languish  into  life  ! 

Hark  !  they  whisper  ;  angels  say, 
Sister  spirit,  come  away  ! 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite  ? 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
,    Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 


I  fly 


The  world  recedes  ;  it  disappears  ! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  !  my  ears 


With  sounds  seraphic  ring  : 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  !  I  mount  ! 
0  Grave  !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

0  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 

Alexander  pope. 


PRAYER   BY   MARY,    QUEEN    OF 
HUNGARY. 

[Translation.] 

0  God  !  though  sorrow  be  my  fate, 
And  the  world's  hate 

For  my  heart's  faith  pursue  me, 
My  peace  they  cannot  take  away  ; 
From  day  to  day 

Thou  dost  anew  imbue  me  ; 
Thou  art  not  far  ;  a  little  while 
Thou  hid'st  thy  face  with  brighter  smile 

Thy  father-love  to  show  me. 

Lord,  not  my  will,  but  thine,  be  done  ; 
If  I  sink  down 

When  men  to  terrors  leave  me, 
Thy  father-love  still  warms  my  breast, 
All 's  for  the  best  ; 

Shall  man  have  power  to  grieve  me 
When  bliss  eternal  is  my  goal, 
And  thou  the  keeper  of  my  soul, 
Who  never  will  deceive  me  ? 

Thou  art  my  shield,  as  saith  the  Word. 
Christ  Jesus,  Lord, 

Thou  standest  pitying  by  me, 
And  lookest  on  each  grief  of  mine 
As  if  't  were  thine  : 

What  then  though  foes  may  try  me, 
Though  thorns  be  in  my  path  concealed  ? 
World,  do  thy  worst  !  God  is  my  shield  I 

And  will  be  ever  nigh  me. 


DIES   IRJS. 

Day  of  wrath,  that  day  of  burning, 
All  shall  melt,  to  ashes  turning, 
All  foretold  by  seers  discerning. 

0,  what  fear  it  shall  engender 

When  the  Judge  shall  come  in  splendor, 

Strict  to  mark  and  just  to  render  ! 

Trumpet-scattered  sound  of  wonder, 
Rending  sepulchres  asunder, 
Shall  resistless  summons  thunder. 

All  aghast  then  Death  shall  shiver, 
And  great  Nature's  frame  shall  quiver, 
When  the  graves  their  dead  deliver. 


Ifl- 


■-r? 


fl- 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


263 


■a 


Think,  0  Jesus,  for  what  reason 

Thou  enduredst  earth's  spite  and  treason, 

Nor  me  lose  in  that  dread  season. 

Seeking  me  thy  worn  feet  hasted, 
On  the  cross  thy  soul  death  tasted, 
Let  such  labor  not  be  wasted. 

Eighteous  Judge  of  retribution, 
Grant  me  perfect  absolution, 
Ere  that  day  of  execution. 

Culprit-like,  I  —  heart  all  broken, 

On  my  cheek  shame's  crimson  token  — 

Plead  the  pardoning  word  be  spoken. 

Mid  the  sheep  a  place  decide  me, 
And  from  goats  on  left  divide  me, 
Standing  on  the  right  beside  thee. 

When  the  accursed  away  are  driven, 

To  eternal  burnings  given, 

Call  me  with  the  blest  to  heaven. 

I  beseech  thee,  prostrate  lying, 
Heart  as  ashes,  contrite,  sighing, 
Care  for  me  when  1  am  dying. 

On  that  awful  day  of  Mailing, 

When  man,  rising,  stands  before  thee, 

Spare  the  culprit,  God  of  glory  ! 

Translated  by  ABR.  COLES,  M.  D. 


LITAXY. 

SAViorn,  when  in  dust  to  thee 
Low  we  bow  the  adoring  knee  ; 
When,  repentant,  to  the  skies 
Scarce  we  lift  our  weeping  eyes,  — 
0,  by  all  thy  pains  and  woe 
Suffered  once  for  man  below, 
Bending  from  thy  throne  on  high, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 

By  thy  helpless  infant  years  ; 

By  thy  life  of  want  and  tears  ; 

I'.',   thy  'lavs  of  sore  distress 

In  the  savage  wilderne 

By  the  dread  mysterious  hour 

Of  the  insulting  tempter's  power, — 

Turn,  O,  turn  a  favoring  eye, 

Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 

By  the  sacred  griefs  thai  wept 
O'er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
By  the  boding  tears  thai  Roved 
Over  Salem's  loved  abode  ; 


By  the  anguished  sigh  that  told 
Treachery  lurked  within  the  fold,  — 
From  thy  seat  above  the  sky 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  ! 

By  thine  hour  of  dire  despair  ; 
By  thine  agony  of  prayer  ; 
By  the  cross,  the  wail,  the  thorn, 
Piercing  spear,  and  torturing  scorn  ; 
By  the  gloom  that  veiled  the  skies 
O'er  the  dreadful  sacrifice,  — 
Listen  to  our  humble  cry, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany  1 

By  thy  deep  expiring  groan  ; 
By  the  sad  sepulchral  stone  ; 
By  the  vault  whose  dark  abode 
Held  in  vain  the  rising  God  ! 
0,  from  earth  to  heaven  restored, 
Mighty,  reascended  Lord,  — 
Listen,  listen  to  the  cry 
Of  our  solemn  litany  ! 

Sir  Robert  Grant. 


THE   HOLY   SPIRIT. 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  I  lie  within  my  bed, 
Sick  at  heart,  and  sick  in  head, 
And  with  doubts  discomforted, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  hope  but  of  his  fees, 
And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill, 
His  or  none  or  little  skill, 
Meet  for  nothing,  but  to  kill,  — 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  Furies,  in  a  shoal. 
Come  to  frighl  a  parting  soul, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  I 

When  the  tapers  now  bum  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few, 

And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 


# 


264 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


■a 


"When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said 
Because  my  speech  is  now  decayed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

"When,  God  knows,  I  'm  tost  about 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt, 
Yet  before  the  glass  be  out, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  tempter  me  pursu'th 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
Aud  half  damns  me  with  untruth, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears,  and  fright  mine  eyes, ' 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

AVhen  the  judgment  is  revealed, 

And  that  opened  which  was  sealed,  — 

When  to  thee  I  have  appealed, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

Robert  Herrick. 


THE   MARTYRS'   HYMN. 

Flttxg  to  the  heedless  winds, 

Or  on  the  waters  cast, 
The  martyrs'  ashes,  watched, 

Shall  gathered  be  at  last ; 
And  from  that  scattered  dust, 

Around  us  and  abroad, 
Shall  spring  a  plenteous  seed 

Of  witnesses  for  God. 

The  Father  hath  received 

Their  latest  living  breath  ; 
And  vain  is  Satan's  boast 

Of  victory  in  their  death  ; 
Still,  still,  though  dead,  they  speak, 

And,  trumpet-tongued,  proclaim 
To  many  a  wakening  land 

The  one  availing  name. 

Martin  Luther.    Translation 
.      of  W.  J.  FOX. 


THE   FIGHT   OF   FAITH. 

[One  of  the  victims  of  the  persecuting  Henry  VIII.,  the  author 
was  burnt  to  death  at  Smithfield  in  1546.  The  following  was  made 
and  sung  by  her  while  a  prisoner  in  Newgate.] 

Like  as  the  armed  Knighte, 
Appointed  to  the  fielde, 
With  this  world  wil  I  fight, 
And  faith  shal  be  my  shilde. 


Faith  is  that  weapon  stronge, 
Which  wil  not  faile  at  nede ; 
My  foes  therefore  amonge, 
Therewith  wil  I  procede. 

As  it  is  had  in  strengthe, 
And  forces  of  Christes  waye, 
It  wil  prevaile  at  lengthe, 
Though  all  the  devils  saye  naye. 

Faithe  of  the  fathers  olde 
Obtained  right  witness, 
Which  makes  me  verye  bolde 
To  fear  no  worldes  distress. 

I  now  rejoice  in  harte, 
And  hope  bides  me  do  so  ; 
For  Christ  wil  take  my  part, 
And  ease  me  of  my  wo. 

Thou  sayst,  Lord,  whoso  knocke, 
To  them  wilt  thou  attende  ; 
Undo,  therefore,  the  locke, 
And  thy  stronge  power  sende. 

More  enemies  now  I  have 
Than  heeres  upon  my  head  ; 
Let  them  not  me  deprave, 
But  fight  thou  in  my  steade. 

On  thee  my  care  I  cast, 
For  all  their  cruell  spight ; 
I  set  not  by  their  hast, 
For  thou  art  my  delight. 

I  am  not  she  that  list 
My  anker  to  let  fall 
For  every  drislinge  mist ; 
My  shippe  's  substancial. 

Not  oft  I  use  to  wright 
In  prose,  nor  yet  in  ryme  ; 
Yet  wil  I  shews  one  sight, 
That  I  sawe  in  my  time. 

I  sawe  a  royall  throne, 
Where  Justice  shulde  have  sitte  ; 
But  in  her  steade  was  One 
Of  moody  cruell  witte. 

Absorpt  was  rightwisness, 
As  by  the  raginge  floude  ; 
Sathan,  in  his  excess 
Sucte  up  the  guiltlesse  bloude. 

Then  thought  I,  —  Jesus,  Lorde, 
When  thou  shalt  judge  us  all, 
Harde  is  it  to  recorde 
On  these  men  what  will  fall. 


W 


THE     BLIND     MILTON. 
"  They  also  serve  "who  only  stand  and  wait.'' 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


— a 

205      ., 


Yet,  Lorde,  I  thee  desire, 
For  that  they  doe  to  me, 
Let  them  not  taste  the  hire 
Of  their  iniquitie. 


ANNE  ASKEWE. 


SERVANT   OF   GOD,  WELL   DONE. 

[Verses  occasioned  by  the  sudden  death  of  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Taylor,  who  had  preached  the  previous  evening.] 

"Servant  of  God,  well  done  ; 

Rest  from  thy  loved  employ  ; 
The  hattle  fought,  the  victory  won, 

Enter  thy  Master's  joy." 
The  voice  at  midnight  came  ; 

He  started  up  to  hear, 
A  mortal  arrow  pierced  his  frame  : 

He  fell,  —  but  felt  no  fear. 

Tranquil  amidst  alarms, 

It  found  him  in  the  field, 
A  veteran  slumbering  on  his  arms, 

Beneath  his  red-cross  shield  : 
His  sword  was  in  his  hand, 

Still  warm  with  recent  fight ; 
Ready  that  moment,  at  command, 

Through  rock  and  steel  to  smite. 

At  midnight  came  the  cry, 

"  To  meet  thy  God  prepare  !  " 
He  woke,  —  and  caught  his  Captain's  eye  ; 

Then,  strong  in  faith  and  prayer, 
His  spirit,  with  a  bound, 

Burst  its  encumbering  clay  ; 
His  tent,  at  sunrise,  on  the  ground, 

A  darkened  ruin  lay. 

The  pains  of  death  are  past, 

Labor  and  sorrow  cease  ; 
And  life's  long  warfare  closed  at  last, 

His  soul  is  found  in  peace. 
Soldier  of  Christ  !  well  done  ; 

Praise  be  thy  new  employ  ; 

And  while  eternal  ages  run, 

Rest  in  thy  Saviour's  joy. 

James  Montgomery. 


That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts  ;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best :  his 
state 

Is  kingly  ;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Milton. 


ON   HIS   BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 

And   tli.it    I talent,   Which   is  death  to  hide, 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more 
I  ■<  •  1 1 1 

To  Serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and   pre  'ii' 

Mv  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide  ; 
"Doth  God  exad  day-lahor,  lighl  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask  :  But  Patience,  to  prevent 


SAID    I   NOT   SO. 

Said  I  not  so,  —  that  I  would  sin  no  more  ? 

Witness,  my  God,  I  did  ; 
Yet  I  am  run  again  upon  the  score  : 

My  faults  cannot  be  hid. 

What  shall  I  do  ?  —  Make  vows  and  break  them 
still  ? 

'T  will  be  but  labor  lost ; 
My  good  cannot  prevail  against  mine  ill : 

The  business  will  be  crost. 

0,  say  not  so  ;  thou  canst  not  tell  what  strength 
Thy  God  may  give  thee  at  the  length. 

Renew  thy  vows,  and  if  thou  keep  the  last, 
Thy  God  will  pardon  all  that 's  past. 

Vow  while  thou  canst ;  while  thou  canst  vow, 
thou  mayst 
Perhaps  perform  it  when  thou  thinkest  least. 

Thy  God  hath  not  denied  thee  all, 

Whilst  he  permits  thee  but  to  call. 

Call  to  thy  God  for  grace  to  keep 

Thy  vows  ;  and  if  thou  break  them,  weep. 

Weep  for  thy  broken  vows,  and  vow  again  : 

Vows  made  with  tears  cannot  be  still  in  vain. 

Then  once  again 

I  vow  to  mend  my  ways  ; 

Lord,  say  Amen, 

And  thine  be  all  the  praise, 

George  Herbert. 


ON  JORDAN'S  STORMY   BANKS. 

On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand, 

And  cast  a  wishful  eye 
To  Canaan's  fair  and  happy  land, 

Where  my  possessions  lie. 

O  the  transporting,  rapturous  scene 

That  rises  to  my  sight ! 
Sweet  fields  arrayed  in  living  green, 

And  rivers  of  delight. 

There  generous  fruits,  thai  never  fail, 
On  trees  immortal  grow  ; 

Thru-  rock,  and  hill,  and  brook,  and  vah 
With  milk  and  honey  flow. 


tfr- 


■ff 


c:t- 


2GG 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


-a 


O'er  all  those  wide-extended  plains 

Shines  one  eternal  day  ; 
There  God  the  Son  forever  reigns, 

And  scatters  night  away. 

No  chilling  winds,  or  poisonous  breath, 
Can  reach  that  healthful  shore  ; 

Sickness  and  sorrow,  pain  and  death, 
Are  felt  and  feared  no  more. 

When  shall  I  reach  that  happy  place, 

And  be  forever  blest  ? 
When  shall  I  see  my  Father's  face, 

And  in  his  bosom  rest  ? 

Filled  with  delight,  my  raptured  soul 

Would  here  no  longer  stay  : 

Though  Jordan's  waves  around  me  roll, 

Fearless  I  'd  launch  away. 

Charles  Wesley. 


HEAVEN. 

0  beauteous  God  !  uncircumscribed  treasure 
Of  an  eternal  pleasure  ! 
Thy  throne  is  seated  far 
Above  the  highest  star, 
Where  thou  preparest  a  glorious  place, 
Within  the  brightness  of  thy  face, 
For  every  spirit 
To  inherit 

That  builds  his  hopes  upon  thy  merit, 
And  loves  thee  with  a  holy  charity. 
What  ravished  heart,  seraphic  tongue,  or  eyes 
Clear  as  the  morning  rise, 
Can  speak,  or  think,  or  see 
That  bright  eternity, 

Where  the  great  King's  transparent  throne 
Is  of  an  entire  jasper  stone  ? 
There  the  eye 
0'  the  chrysolite, 
And  a  sky 

Of  diamonds,  rubies,  chrysoprase,  — 
And  above  all  thy  holy  face,  — 
Makes  an  eternal  charity. 
When  thou  thy  jewels  up  dost  bind,  that  day 
Remember  us,  we  pray,  — 
That  where  the  beryl  lies, 
And  the  crystal  'bove  the  skies, 
There  thou  mayest  appoint  us  place 
Within  the  brightness  of  thy  face,  — 
And  our  soul 
In  the  scroll 

Of  life  and  blissfulness  enroll, 
That  we  may  praise  thee  to  eternity.     Allelujah  ! 

Jeremy  Taylor. 


THE   SPIRIT-LAND. 

Father  !   thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand, 

Nor  far  removed  where  feet  have  seldom  strayed  ; 

Around  us  ever  lies  the  enchanted  land, 

In  marvels  rich  to  thine  own  sons  displayed  ; 

In  finding  thee  are  all  things  round  us  found  ; 

In  losing  thee  are  all  things  lost  beside  ; 

Ears  have  we,  but  in  vain  strange  voices  sound  ; 

And  to  our  eyes  the  vision  is  denied  ; 

We  wander  in  the  country  far  remote, 

Mid  tombs  and  ruined  piles  in  death  to  dwell ; 

Or  on  the  records  of  past  greatness  dote, 

And  for  a  buried  soul  the  living  sell  ; 

While  on  our  path  bewildered  falls  the  night 

That  ne'er  returns  us  to  the  fields  of  light. 

Jones  Very. 


THERE  IS  A  LAND  OF  PURE  DELIGHT. 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 

"Where  saints  immortal  reign  ; 
Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 

And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 

And  never-withering  flowers  ; 
Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 

This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 

Stand  dressed  in  living  green  ; 
So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood, 

While  Jordan  rolled  between. 

But  timorous  mortals  start  and  shrink 

To  cross  this  narrow  sea, 
And  linger  shivering  on  the  brink, 

And  fear  to  launch  away. 

0,  could  we  make  our  doubts  remove, 

Those  gloomy  doubts  that  rise, 
And  see  the  Canaan  that  we  love 

With  unbeclouded  eyes,  — 

Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 

And  view  the  landscape  o'er, 
Not  Jordan's  stream,  nor  death's  cold  flood, 

Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. 

ISAAC  WATTS. 


HEAVEN. 

Beyond  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies, 

Beyond  death's  cloudy  portal, 
There  is  a  land  where  beauty  never  dies, 

Where  love  becomes  immortal  ; 


— ff 


rfr 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


267 


ft 


A  land  whose  life  is  never  dimmed  by  shade, 

Whose  fields  are  ever  vernal ; 
Where  nothing  beautiful  can  ever  fade, 

But  blooms  for  aye  eternal. 

We  may  not  know  how  sweet  its  balmy  air, 

How  bright  and  fair  its  flowers  ; 
We  may  not  hear  the  songs  that  echo  there, 

Through  those  enchanted  bowers. 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see 

With  our  dim  earthly  vision, 
For  Death,  the  silent  warder,  keeps  the  key 

That  opes  the  gates  elysian. 

But  sometimes,  when  adown  the  western  sky 

A  fiery  sunset  lingers, 
Its  golden  gates  swing  inward  noiselessly, 

Unlocked  by  unseen  fingers. 

And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half  ajar, 

Gleams  from  the  inner  glory 
Stream  brightly  through  the  azure  vault  afar 

And  half  reveal  the  story. 

0  land  unknown  !     0  land  of  love  divine  ! 

Father,  all-wise,  eternal  ! 
0,  guide  these  wandering,  wayworn  feet  of  mine 

Into  those  pastures  vernal ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


"ONLY  WAITING." 

[A  very  aged  man  in  an  almshouse  was  asked  what  he  was  doing 
now.     He  replied,  "  Only  waiting."] 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown, 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown  ; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 

From  the  heart,  once  full  of  day  ; 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven  arc  breaking 

Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Save  the  last  sheaf  gathered  home, 
For  the  summer  time  is  faded, 

And  tlic  autumn  winds  have  come. 
Quickly,  reapers  '  gather  quickly 

The  lasl  ripe  hours  of  my  heart, 
For  the  bloom  of  life  is  withered, 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 

Only  waiting  till  the  angels 

I  >pen  \\  ide  the  mystic  gate, 
At  whose  feel  I  Long  have  lingered, 

Weary,  | r,  and  desolate. 

Even  now  I  hear  the  fool  steps, 

And  their  70ices  far  away  ; 


If  they  call  me  I  am  waiting, 
Only  waiting  to  obey. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown, 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown. 
Then  from  out  the  gathered  darkness, 

Holy,  deathless  stars  shall  rise, 
By  whose  light  my  soul  shall  gladly 

Tread  its  pathway  to  the  skies. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   SOUL. 

Come,   Brother,  turn    with   me   from   pining 
thought 
And  all  the  inward  ills  that  sin  has  wrought ; 
Come,  send  abroad  a  love  for  all  who  live, 
And  feel  the  deep  content  in  turn  they  give. 
Kind  wishes  and  good  deeds,  —  they  make  not 

poor  ; 
They  '11  home  again,  full  laden,  to  thy  door  ; 
The  streams  of  love  flow  back  where  they  begin, 
For  springs  of  outward  joys  He  deep  within. 

Even  let  them  flow,  and  make  the  places  glad 
Where  dwell  thy  fellow-men.  Shouldst  thou  be  sad, 
And  earth  seem  bare,  and  hours,  once  happy,  press 
Upon  thy  thoughts,  and  make  thy  loneliness 
More  lonely  for  the  past,  thou  then  shalt  hear 
The  music  of  those  waters  running  near  ; 
And  thy  faint  spirit  drink  the  cooling  stream, 
And  thine  eye  gladden  with  the  playing  beam 
That  now  upon  the  water  dances,  now 
Leaps  up  and  dances  in  the  hanging  bough. 

Is  it  not  lovely  ?     Tell  me,  where  doth  dwell 
The  power  that  wrought  so  beautiful  a  spell  ? 
In  thine  own  bosom,  Brother?     Then  as  thine 
Guard  with  a  reverent  fear  this  power  divine. 

And  if,  indeed,  't  is  not  the  outward  state, 
But  temper  of  the  soul  by  which  we  rate 
Sadness  or  joy,  even  let  thy  bosom  move 
With  noble  thoughts  and  wake  thee  into  love, 
And  let  each  feeling  in  thy  breast  be  given 
An  honest  aim,  which,  sanctified  by  Heaven, 
And  springing  into  act,  new  life  imparts, 
Till  beats  thy  frame  as  with  a  thousand  hearts. 

Sin  clouds  the  mind's  clear  vision, 
Around  the  self-starved  soul  has  spread  a  dearth. 
The  earth  is  lull  of  life  ;  the  living  Hand 
Touched  it  with  life  ;  and  all  its  forms  expand 
With  principles  of  being  made  to  suit 
Man's  varied  poweraand  raise  him  from  the  brute. 
And  shall  the  earth  of  higher  ends  be  full, — 
Earth  which  thou  tread'st,  — and  thy  poor  mind 

be  dull  ? 
Thou  talk  of  life,  with  half  thy  soul  asleep  .' 


■B- 


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268 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


•a 


Tliou  "living  dead  man,"  let  thy  spirit  leap 

Forth  to  the  day,  and  let  the  fresh  air  blow 

Through  thy  soul's  shut-up  mansion.     Wouldst 

thou  know 

Something  of  what  is  life,  shake  off  this  death  ; 

Have  thy  soul  feel  the  universal  breath 

With  which  all  nature  's  quick,  and  learn  to  be 

Sharer  in  all  that  thou  dost  touch  or  see  ; 

Break  from  thy  body's  grasp,  thy  spirit's  trance  ; 

Give  thy  soul  air,  thy  faculties  expanse  ; 

Love,  joy,  even  sorrow,  —  yield  thyself  to  all ! 

They  make  thy  freedom,  groveller,  not  thy  thrall. 

Knock  off  the  shackles  which  thy  spirit  bind 

To  dust  and  sense,  and  set  at  large  the  mind  ! 

Then  move  in  sympathy  with  God's  great  whole, 

And  be  like  man  at  first,  a  living  .soul. 

Richard  Henry  Dana. 


SIT  DOWN,    SAD   SOUL. 

Sit  down,  sad  soul,  and  count 

The  moments  flying  ; 
Come,  tell  the  sweet  amount 

That  's  lost  by  sighing  ! 
How  many  smiles  ?  —  a  score  ? 
Then  laugh,  and  count  no  more  ; 
For  day  is  dying  ! 

Lie  down,  sad  soul,  and  sleep, 

And  no  more  measure 
The  flight  of  time,  nor  weep 

The  loss  of  leisure  ; 
But  here,  by  this  lone  stream, 
Lie  down  with  us,  and  dream 
Of  starry  treasure  ! 

We  dream  ;  do  thou  the  same  ; 

We  love,  —  forever  ; 
We  laugh,  yet  few  we  shame,  — 

The  gentle  never. 
Stay,  then,  till  sorrow  dies  ; 
Then  —  hope  and  happy  skies 
Are  thine  forever  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


TELL  ME,    YE  WINGED   WINDS. 

Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds, 

That  round  my  pathway  roar, 
Do  ye  not  know  some  spot 

Where  mortals  weep  no  more  ? 
Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell, 

Some  valley  in  the  west, 
Where,  free  from  toil  and  pain, 

The  weary  soul  may  rest  ? 
The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low, 
And  sighed  for  pity  as  it  answered,  —  "  No." 


Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep, 

Whose  billows  round  me  play, 
Know'st  thou  some  favored  spot, 

Some  island  far  away, 
Where  weary  man  may  find 

The  bliss  for  which  he  sighs,  — 
Where  sorrow  never  lives, 
And  friendship  never  dies  ? 
The  loud  waves,  rolling  in  perpetual  flow, 
Stopped  for  a  while,  and  sighed  to  answer,  — 
"No." 

And  thou,  serenest  moon, 

That,  with  such  lovely  face, 
Dost  look  upon  the  earth, 

Asleep  in  night's  embrace  ; 
Tell  me,  in  all  thy  round 

Hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot 
Where  miserable  man 
May  find  a  happier  lot  ? 
Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew  in  woe, 
And  a  voice,  sweet  but  sad,  responded,  —  ' '  No. " 

Tell  me,  my  secret  soul, 

O,  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Is  there  no  resting-place 

From  sorrow,  sin,  and  death  ? 
Is  there  no  happy  spot 

Where  mortals  may  be  blessed, 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm, 
And  weariness  a  rest  ? 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  best  boons  to  mortals  given, 
Waved   their  bright   wings,  and   whispered,  — 
"  Yes,  in  heaven  !  " 

Charles  Mackay. 


0,    WHERE   SHALL   REST   BE   FOUND? 

0,  where  shall  rest  be  found,  — 

Rest  for  the  weary  soul  ? 
'T  were  vain  the  ocean  depths  to  sound, 

Or  pierce  to  either  pole. 

The  world  can  never  give 

The  bliss  for  which  we  sigh  : 
'T  is  not  the  whole  of  life  to  live, 

Nor  all  of  death  to  die. 

Beyond  this  vale  of  tears' 

There  is  a  life  above, 
Unmeasured  by  the  flight  of  years  ; 

And  all  that  life  is  love. 

There  is  a  death  whose  pang 

Outlasts  the  fleeting  breath  : 
0,  what  eternal  horrors  hang 

Around  the  second  death  ! 


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POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


169 


•a 


Lord  God  of  truth  and  grace, 

Teach  us  that  death  to  shun, 
Lest  we  be  banished  from  thy  face, 

And  evermore  undone. 

James  Montgomery. 


THERE   IS  AN   HOUR  •  OF   PEACEFUL 
REST. 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest 
To  mourning  wanderers  given  ; 
There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distressed, 
A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast ; 
'T  is  found  above,  —  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  soft,  a  downy  bed, 

'T  is  fair  as  breath  of  even  ; 
A  couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 
Where  they  may  rest  the  aching  head, 

And  hud  repose,  —  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  home  for  weary  souls 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven  ; 
When  tossed  on  life's  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise,  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear,  —  but  heaven. 

There  Faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

To  brighter  prospects  given, 
And  views  the  tempest  passing  by, 
The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 

And  all  serene,  — in  heaven. 

There  fragrant  flowers  immortal  bloom, 
And  joys  supreme  are  given  ; 

There  rays  divine  disperse  the  gloom  ; 

Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 
Appears  the  dawn  of  heaven. 

w.  B.  TAPPAN. 


NOTHING   BUT  LEAVES. 

NOTHING  but  leaves  ;  the  spirit  grieves 

Over  a  wasted  life  ; 
Sin  committed  while  conscience  slept, 
Promises  made  but  never  kept, 

Hatred,  battle,  and  strife; 
Nothing  but  leaves .' 

Nothing  1  nit  leaves  ;  no  garnered  sheaves 

Of  life's  fair,  ripened  grain  ; 
Words,  idle  words,  for  earnest  deeds; 
We  sow  our  seeds,  —  lo  !  tares  and  weeds  ; 

We  reap,  with  toil  and  pain, 
Nothing  but  leaves/ 


Nothing  but  leaves  ;  memory  weaves 

No  veil  to  screen  the  past  : 
As  we  retrace  our  weary  way, 
Counting  each  lost  and  misspent  day, 
We  find,  sadly,  at  last, 
Nothing  but  leaves  I 

And  shall  we  meet  the  Master  so, 
Bearing  our  withered  leaves  ? 

The  Saviour  looks  for  perfect  fruit  ; 

We  stand  before  him,  humbled,  mute 
Waiting  the  words  he  breathes,  — 
"Nothing  but  leaves  ? " 


Anonymous. 


GREENWOOD   CEMETERY. 

How  calm  they  sleep  beneath  the  shade 

Who  once  were  weary  of  the  strife, 
And  bent,  like  us,  beneath  the  load 
Of  human  life  ! 

The  willow  hangs  with  sheltering  grace 

And  benediction  o'er  their  sod, 
And  Nature,  hushed,  assures  the  soul 
They  rest  in  God. 

0  weary  hearts,  what  rest  is  here, 

From  all  that  curses  yonder  town  ! 
So  deep  the  peace,  I  almost  long 
To  lay  me  down. 

For,  0,  it  will  be  blest  to  sleep, 

Nor  dream,  nor  move,  that  silent  night, 
Till  wakened  in  immortal  strength 
And  heavenly  light ! 

Crammond  Kennedy. 


THE   UNIVERSAL   PRAYER. 

FATHER  of  all  !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood, 

Who  all  1113'  sense  con  lined 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind  ; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 
To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 

And,  binding  nature  fist  in  fate, 

I  ,el'l     lire    ;  lie    lllllll.lll    U  ill. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  nie  not  to  do, 
This,  teaeli  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 


ffl- 


-B1 


270 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


a 


What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  away  ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives, 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 
Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 

When  thousand  worlds  are  round  : 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 

Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 
And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 

On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay  ; 
If  I  am  wrong,  0,  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way  ! 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see  ; 
That  mere}'-  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  thy  breath  ; 

0,  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death  ! 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot ; 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies  ! 

One  chorus  let  all  Being  raise  ! 
All  Nature's  incense  rise  ! 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


WRESTLING  JACOB. 

FIRST    PART. 

Come,  0  thou  Traveller  unknown, 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see  ; 

My  company  before  is  gone, 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  thee  ; 

With  thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay, 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  who  I  am  ; 
My  sin  and  misery  declare  ; 
Thyself  hast  called  me  by  my  name  ; 
Look  on  thy  hands,  and  read  it  there  ; 


But  who,  I  ask  thee,  who  art  thou  ? 
Tell  me  thy  name,  and  tell  me  now. 

In  vain  thou  strugglest  to  get  free  ; 

I  never  will  unloose  my  hold  : 
Art  thou  the  Man  that  died  for  me  ? 

The  secret  of  thy  love  unfold ; 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

Wilt  thou  not  yet  to  me  reveal 

Thy  new,  unutterable  name  ? 
Tell  me,  I  still  beseech  thee,  tell ; 

To  know  it  now  resolved  I  am  ; 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

What  though  my  shrinking  flesh  complain 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long, 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain  ; 

When  I  am  weak,  then  am  I  strong ! 

And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 

I  shall  with  the  God-man  prevail. 

SECOND    PART. 

Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak, 

But  confident  in  self-despair  ; 
Speak  to  my  heart,  in  blessings  speak  ; 

Be  conquered  by  my  instant  prayer ; 
Speak,  or  thou  never  hence  shalt  move, 
And  tell  me  if  thy  name  be  Love. 

'T  is  love  !  't  is  love  !     Thou  diedst  for  me  ; 

I  hear  thy  whisper  in  my  heart ; 
The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  flee  ; 

Pure,  universal  love  thou  art  ; 
To  me,  to  all,  thy  bowels  move  ; 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

My  prayer  hath  power  with  God  ;  the  grace 

Unspeakable  I  now  receive  ; 
Through  faith  I  see  thee  face  to  face ; 

I  see  thee  face  to  face  and  live  ! 
In  vain  I  have  not  wept  and  strove  ; 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

I  know  thee,  Saviour,  who  thou  art, 
Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  friend  ; 

Nor  wilt  thou  with  the  night  depart, 
But  stay  and  love  me  to  the  end  ; 

Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove  ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  on  me 

Hath  rose,  with  healing  in  his  wings  ; 

Withered  my  nature's  strength  ;  from  thee 
My  soul  its  life  and  succor  brings  ; 

My  help  is  all  laid  up  above  ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 


-H=P 


[fl- 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


"^ 


Contented  now  upon  my  thigh 

1  halt  till  life's  short  journey  end  ; 

All  helplessness,  all  weakness,  I 
On  thee  alone  for  strength  depend  ; 

Nor  have  I  power  from  thee  to  move  ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey  ; 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin  with  ease  o'ercome  ; 
I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  way, 

And,  as  a  hounding  hart,  fly  home  ; 
Through  all  eternity  to  prove 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

CHARLES  WESLEY. 


0  GOD  !  OUR  HELP  IN  AGES  PAST. 

0  God  !  our  help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 

Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  hlast, 
And  our  eternal  home  ! 

Before  the  hills  in  order  stood, 
Or  earth  received  her  frame, 

From  everlasting  thou  art  God, 
To  endless  years  the  same. 

A  thousand  ages  in  thy  sight 

Are  like  an  evening  gone  ; 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 

Before  the  rising  sun. 

Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away  ; 
They  fly,  forgotten,  as  a  dream 

Dies  at  the  opening  day. 

0  God  !  our  help  in  ages  past, 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 
Be  thou  our  guide  while  troubles  last, 

And  our  eternal  home  ! 

Isaac  Watts. 


A   MIGHTY  FORTRESS   IS   OUR  GOD. 

BIN*    FESTB    BURG   1ST   UNSER    GOTT. 

A  MIGHTY  fortress  is  our  God, 
A  bulwark  never  failing  ; 

Our  helper  lie  amid  the  Hood 

Of  mortal  ills  prevailing. 
For  still  our  ancient  foe 
Doth  seek  to  work  us  woe  ; 
His  craft  and  power  are  great, 
And,  armed  with  equal  hate, 

On  earth  is  not  his  equal. 

Did  we  in  our  own  strength  confide, 
Our  striving  would  be  losing  ; 

Were  not  the  right  man  on  our  side, 
The  man  of  Cud's  own  choosing. 


Dost  ask  who  that  may  he  ? 
Christ  Jesus,  it  is  he, 
Lord  Sabaoth  his  name, 
From  age  to  age  the  same, 
And  he  must  win  the  battle. 

Martin  Luther.    Translation 
of  F.  h.  Hedge. 


JEWISH  HYMN   IN  JERUSALEM. 

God  of  the  thunder  !  from  whose  cloudy  seat 

The  fiery  winds  of  Desolation  flow  ; 
Father  of  vengeance  !  that  with  purple  feet 
.  Like  a  full  wine-press  tread' st  the  world  below  ; 
The  embattled  armies  wait  thy  sign  to  slay, 
Nor  springs  the  beast  of  havoc  on  his  prey, 
Nor  withering  Famine  walks  his  blasted  way, 
Till  thou  hast  marked  the  guilty  land  for  woe. 

God  of  the  rainbow  !  at  whose  gracious  sign 

The  billows  of  the  proud  their  rage  suppress  ; 
Father  of  mercies  !  at  one  word  of  thine 

An  Eden  blooms  in  the  waste  wilderness, 
And  fountains  sparkle  in  the  arid  sands, 
And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens'  glancing  hands, 
And  marble  cities  crown  the  laughing  lands, 
And  pillared  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  thunders  broke,  0  Lord  ! 

The  chariots  rattled  o'er  her  sunken  gate, 
Her  sons  were  wasted  by  the  Assyrian's  sword, 

Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state  ; 
And  heaps  her  ivory  palaces  became, 
Her  princes -wore  the  captive's  garb  of  shame, 
Her  temples  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame, 

For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest  cloud  of  fate. 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  rainbow,  Lord,  shall  beam, 

And  the  sad  City  lift  her  crownless  head, 
And  songs  shall  wake  and  dancingfootsteps  gleam 
In  streets  where  broods  the  silence  of  the  dead. 
The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem's  gilded  towers, 
On  Carmel's  side  our  maidens  cull  the  flowers 
To  deck  at  blushing  eve  their  bridal  bowers, 
And  angel  feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 

Thy  vengeance  gave  us  to  the  stranger's  hand, 
And  Abraham's  children  were  led  forth  for 
slaves. 
With  fettered  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  land, 

Envying  our  fathers  in  their  peaceful  graves. 
The  strangers'  bread  with  bitter  tears  we  strip. 
And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 
In  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep, 
Where  the  pale  willows  shade  Euphrates'  waves. 

The  horn  in  sorrow  shall  bring  forth  in  joy  ; 
Thymercy,  Lord,  shall  lead  thy  children  home ; 


ca- 


■ff 


272 


POEMS   OF  EELIGION. 


ft 


He  that  went  forth  a  tender  prattling  boy- 
Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem's  streets  shall  come  ; 
And  Canaan's  vines  for  us  their  fruit  shall  hear, 
And  Hermon's  bees  their  honeyed  stores  prepare, 
And  we  shall  kneel  again  in  thankful  prayer, 
Where  o'er  the  cherub-seated  God  full  blazed 

the  irradiate  throne. 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 


WHEN  JORDAN  HUSHED   HIS   WATERS 
STILL. 

When  Jordan  hushed  his  waters  still, 

And  silence  slept  on  Zion's  hill, 

When  Bethlehem's  shepherds,  through  the  night, 

Watched  o'er  their  flocks  by  starry  light,  — 

Hark  !  from  the  midnight  hills  around, 
A  voice  of  more  than  mortal  sound 
In  distant  hallelujahs  stole, 
Wild  murmuring  o'er  the  raptured  soul. 

On  wheels  of  light,  on  wings  of  flame, 

The  glorious  hosts  of  Zion  came  ; 

High  heaven  with  songs  of  triumph  rung, 

While  thus  they  struck  their  harps  and  sung  : 

"  0  Zion,  lift  thy  raptured  eye  ; 
The  long-expected  hour  is  nigh  ; 
The  joys  of  nature  rise  again  ; 
The  Prince  of  Salem  comes  to  reign. 

"See,  Mercy,  from  her  golden  urn, 
Pours  a  rich  stream  to  them  that  mourn ; 
Behold,  she  binds,  with  tender  care, 
The  bleeding  bosom  of  despair. 

He  comes  to  cheer  the  trembling  heart  ; 
Bids  Satan  and  his  host  depart  ; 
Again  the  day-star  gilds  the  gloom, 

Again  the  bowers  of  Eden  bloom." 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE   MOTHER'S   HYMN. 

"  Blessed  art  thou  among  women." 

Loud,  who  ordainest  for  mankind 
Benignant  toils  and  tender  cares, 

We  thank  thee  for  the  ties  that  bind 
The  mother  to  the  child  she  bears. 

We  thank  thee  for  the  hopes  that  rise 
Within  her  heart,  as,  day  by  day, 

The  dawning  soul,  from  those  young  eyes, 
Looks  with  a  clearer,  steadier  ray. 


And,  grateful  for  the  blessing  given 
With  that  dear  infant  on  her  knee, 

She  trains  the  eye  to  look  to  heaven, 
The  voice  to  lisp  a  prayer  to  thee. 

Such  thanks  the  blessed  Mary  gave 
When  from  her  lap  the  Holy  Child, 

Sent  from  on  high  to  seek  and  save 

The  lost  of  earth,  looked  up  and  smiled. 

All- Gracious  !  grant  to  those  who  bear 
A  mother's  charge  the  strength  and  light 

To  guide  the  feet  that  own  their  care 
In  ways  of  Love  and  Truth  and  Right. 
William  Cullen  Bryant. 


MORTALS,   AWAKE  !    WITH  ANGELS 
JOIN. 

Mortals,  awake  !  with  angels  join, 

And  chant  the  solemn  lay  ; 
Joy,  love,  and  gratitude  combine 

To  hail  the  auspicious  day. 

In  heaven  the  rapturous  song  began, 

And  sweet  seraphic  fire 
Through  all  the  shining  legions  ran, 

And  strung  and  tuned  the  lyre. 

Swift  through  the  vast  expanse  it  flew, 

And  loud  the  echo  rolled  ; 
The  theme,  the  song,  the  joy,  was  new, 

'T  was  more  than  heaven  could  hold. 

Down  through  the  portals  of  the  sky 

Th'  impetuous  torrent  ran  ; 
And  angels  flew,  with  eager  joy, 

To  bear  the  news  to  man. 

Hark  !  the  cherubic  armies  shout, 

And  glory  leads  the  song  ; 
"  Good- will  and  peace  "  are  heard  throughout 

The  harmonious  angel  throng. 

Hail,  Prince  of  life  !  forever  hail, 

Redeemer,  Brother,  Friend  ! 
Though  earth  and  time  and  life  should  fail, 

Thy  praise  shall  never  end. 

Medlhy. 


HOW  SWEET  THE  NAME  OF  JESUS 
SOUNDS ! 

How  sweet  the  name  of  Jesus  sounds 

In  a  believer's  ear  ! 
It  soothes  his  sorrows,  heals  his  wounds, 

And  drives  away  his  fear. 


•ff 


CJ- 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


273 


■a 


It  makes  the  wounded  spirit  whole, 
And  calms  the  troubled  breast ; 

'T  is  manna  to  the  hungry  soul, 
And  for  the  weary,  rest. 

By  thee  my  prayers  acceptance  gain, 

Although  with  sin  denied  ; 
Satan  accuses  me  in  vain, 

And  I  am  owned  a  child. 

Jesus  !  my  Shepherd,  Guardian,  Friend, 
My  Prophet,  Priest,  and  King ; 

My  Lord,  my  Life,  my  Way,  my  End, 
Accept  the  praise  I  bring. 

Weak  is  the  effort  of  my  heart, 
And  cold  my  warmest  thought ; 

But  when  I  see  thee  as  thou  art, 
I  '11  praise  thee  as  I  ought. 

Till  then  I  would  thy  love  proclaim 

With  every  fleeting  breath  ; 
And  may  the  music  of  thy  name 

Refresh  my  soul  in  death  ! 

John  Newton. 


<B-- 


NOW  TO  THE  HAVEN  OF  THY  BREAST. 

Now  to  the  haven  of  thy  breast, 

O  Son  of  man,  I  fly  ; 
Be  thou  my  refuge  and  my  rest, 

For  0,  the  storm  is  high  ! 

Protect  me  from  the  furious  blast, 

My  shield  and  shelter  be  ; 
Hide  me,  my  Saviour,  till  o'erpast 

The  storm  of  sin  I  see. 

As  welcome  as  the  water-spring 

Is  to  a  barren  place, 
Jesus,  descend  on  me,  and  bring 

Thy  sweet,  refreshing  grace. 

As  o'er  a  parched  and  weary  land 

A  rock  extends  its  shade, 
So  liidf  me,  Saviour,  with  thy  hand, 

And  screen  my  naked  head. 

In  all  the  times  of  mv  distress 

Thou  hast  my  succor  been  ; 
Ami,  in  my  utter  helplessness, 
Restraining  me  from  sin, 

How  swift  to  save  me  didst  thou  move, 

In  every  trying  hour  ! 
0,  still  protecl  me  with  thy  lm e, 
And  shield  me  with  thy  power  ! 

Charles  Wesley. 
18 


JESUS,    LOVER   OF   MY   SOUL. 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While,  the  tempest  still  is  high  ! 
Hide  me,  0  my  Saviour,  hide, 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past ; 
Safe  into  thy  haven  guide, 

0,  receive  my  soul  at  last ! 

Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee  ; 
Leave,  ah  !  leave  me  not  alone, 

Still  support  and  comfort  me. 
All  my  trust  on  thee  is  stayed, 

All  my  help  from  thee  I  bring ; 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  thy  wing. 

Wilt  thou  not  regard  my  call  ? 

Wilt  thou,  not  regard  my  prayer  ? 
Lo  !  I  sink,  I  faint,  I  fall,  — 

Lo  !  on  thee  I  cast  my  care  ; 
Reach  me  out  thy  gracious  hand, 

While  I  of  thy  strength  receive  ! 
Hoping  against  hope  I  stand,  — 


Dyin 


g,  and  behold  I  live. 


Thou,  0  Christ,  art  all  I  want ; 

More  than  all  in  thee  I  find  ; 
Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint, 

Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  the  blind, 
Just  and  holy  is  thy  name, 

I  am  all  unrighteousness  ; 
False  and  full  of  sin  I  am, 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  with  thee  is  found,  — 

Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin  ; 
Let  the  healing  streams  abound, 

Make  and  keep  me  pure  within. 
Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art, 

Freely  let  me  take  of  thee  ; 
Spring  thou  up  within  my  heart, 

Rise  to  all  eternity. 

CHARLES  WESLEY, 


SWEETEST   SAVIOUR,    IF   MY   SOUL  — 

Sweetest  Saviour,  if  my  soul 

Were  bul  worth  the  having, 
Quickly  should  I  then  controll 

Any  thought  of  waving. 
I '.nt  when  all  my  care  and  pains 
Cannot  give  the  name  of  gains 
To  thy  wretch  so  full  of  stains, 
What  delight  or  hope  remains  ? 


-ff 


a- 


274 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


■ft 


What  (chil(k),  is  the  balance  thine, 
Thine  tlte poise  and  measure  ? 
If  I  say,  Thou  shalt  be  mine, 

Finger  not  my  treasure. 
What  the  gains  in  having  tliee 
Do  amount  to,  onely  he 
Who  for  man  was  sold  can  see, 
That  transferred  the  accounts  to  me. 

But  as  I  can  see  no  merit 

Leading  to  this  favour  : 
So  the  way  to  lit  me  for  it 

Is  beyond  my  savour. 
As  the  reason  then  is  thine, 
So  the  way  is  none  of  mine  : 
I  disclaim  the  whole  designe  ; 
Sinne  disclaims  and  I  resigne. 

Tliat  is  all,  if  tlmt  I  could 

Get  without  repining; 
And  my  clay  my  creature  would 

Folloio  my  resigning  : 

Tlmt  as  I  did  freely  part 

With  my  glorie  and  desert, 

Left  all  j'oyes  to  feel  all  smart  — 

Ah  !  no  more  :  thou  hreak'st  my  heart. 

George  Herbert. 


JUST   AS   I   AM. 

Just  as  I  am,  —  without  one  plea, 
But  that  thy  blood  was  shed  for  me, 
And  that  thou  bid'st  me  come  to  thee,  — 
0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  !  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  —  and  waiting  not 
To  rid  my  soul  of  one  dark  blot, 
To  thee  whose  blood  can  cleanse  each  spot, 
0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  !  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  —  though  tossed  about 
With  many  a  conflict,  many  a  doubt, 
Fightings  within,  and  fears  without,  — 
0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  !  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  —  poor,  wretched,  blind  ; 
Sight,  riches,  healing  of  the  mind, 
Yea,  all  I  need,  in  thee  to  find,  — 
0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  !  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  — thou  wilt  receive  ; 
Wilt  welcome,  pardon,  cleanse,  relieve  ; 
Because  thy  promise  I  believe,  — 
0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  !  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  —  thy  love  unknown 
Has  broken  every  barrier  down  ; 
Now,  to  be  thine,  yea,  thine  alone,  — 


ROCK  OF  AGES,  CLEFT  FOR  ME. 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee  ! 
Let  the  water  and  the  blood, 
From  thy  riven  side  which  flowed, 
Be  of  sin  the  double  cure,  — 
Cleanse  me  from  its  guilt  and  power. 

Not  the  labors  of  my  hands 
Can  fulfil  thy  law's  demands  ; 
Could  my  zeal  no  respite  know, 
Could  my  tears  forever  flow, 
All  for  sin  could  not  atone,  — 
Thou  must  save,  and  thou  alone. 

Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring, 
Simply  to  thy  cross  I  cling  ; 
Naked,  come  to  thee  for  dress, 
Helpless,  look  to  thee  for  grace  ; 
Foul,  I  to  the  fountain  fly,  — 
Wash  me,  Saviour,  or  I  die. 

While  T  draw  this  fleeting  breath, 
When  my  eye-strings  break  in  death, 
When  I  soar  to  worlds  unknown, 
See  thee  on  thy  judgment-throne, 
Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  lor  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee  ! 

Augustus  Montague  Toplady. 


0  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  !  I  come 


ANONYMOUS. 


WHEN  GATHERING  CLOUDS  AROUND  I 
VIEW. 

When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view, 
And  days  are  dark,  and  friends  are  few, 
On  Him  I  lean  who  not  in  vain 
Experienced  every  human  pain  ; 
He  sees  my  wants,  allays  my  fears, 
And  counts  and  treasures  up  my  tears. 

If  aught  should  tempt  my  soul  to  stray 

From  heavenly  wisdom's  narrow  way, 

To  fly  the  good  I  would  pursue, 

Or  do  the  sin  I  would  not  do, 

Still  he  who  felt  temptation's  power 

Shall  guard  me  in  that  dangerous  hour. 

If  wounded  love  my  bosom  swell, 
Deceived  by  those  I  prized  too  well, 
He  shall  his  pitying  aid  bestow 
Who  felt  on  earth  severer  woe, 
At  once  betrayed,  denied,  or  fled, 
By  those  who  shared  his  daily  bread. 

If  vexing  thoughts  within  me  rise,    ' 
And  sore  dismayed  my  spirit  dies, 
Still  he  who  once  vouchsafed  to  bear 
The  sickening  anguish  of  despair 


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275      I 


Shall  sweetly  soothe,  shall  gently  dry, 
The  throbbing  heart,  the  streaming  eye. 

"When  sorrowing  o'er  some  stone  I  bend, 
Which  covers  what  was  once  a  friend, 
And  from  his  voice,  his  hand,  his  smile, 
Divides  me  for  a  little  while, 
Thou,  Saviour,  mark'st  the  tears  I  shed, 
For  thou  didst  weep  o'er  Lazarus  dead. 

And  0,  when  I  have  safely  past 

Through  every  conflict  but  the  last, 

Still,  still  unchanging,  watch  beside 

My  painful  bed,  —  for  thou  hast  died ; 

Then  point  to  realms  of  cloudless  day, 

And  wipe  the  latest  tear  away. 

Sir  Robert  Grant. 


"THOU   HAST   PUT   ALL   THINGS 
UNDER   HIS    FEET." 

0  North,  with  all  thy  vales  of  green  ! 

0  South,  with  all  thy  palms  ! 
From  peopled  towns  and  fields  between 

Uplift  the  voice  of  psalms. 
Raise,  ancient  East  !  the  anthem  high, 
And  let  the  youthful  West  reply. 

Lo  !  in  the  clouds  of  heaven  appears 

God's  well-beloved  Son. 
He  brings  a  train  of  brighter  years, 

His  kingdom  is  begun. 
He  comes  a  guilty  world  to  bless 
With  mercy,  truth,  and  righteousness. 

0  Father  !  haste  the  promised  hour, 

When  at  his  feet  shall  lie 
All  rule,  authority,  and  power, 

Beneath  the  ample  sky  ; 
When  he  shall  reign  from  pole  to  pole, 
The  Lord  of  every  human  soul  ; 

When  all  shall  heed  the  words  he  said, 

Amid  their  daily  cares, 
And  by  the  loving  life  he  led 

Shall  strive  to  pattern  theirs  : 

And  he  who  conquered  Death  shall  win 

The  mightier  conquest  over  Sin. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


o, 


HAPPY   DAY   THAT   FIXED   MY 
CHOICE  ! 


'T  is  done,  the  great  transaction  's  done  ! 

I  am  my  Lord's,  and  he  is  mine  ; 
He  drew  me,  and  I  followed  on, 

Charmed  to  confess  the  voice  divine. 

Now  rest  my  long-divided  heart, 
FLxed  on  this  blissful  centre,  rest ; 

Nor  ever  from  thy  Lord  depart, 
With  him  of  every  good  possessed. 

High  Heaven,  that  heard  the  solemn  vow, 
That  vow  renewed  shall  daily  hear  ; 

Till  in  life's  latest  hour  I  bow, 
And  bless  in  death  a  bond  so  dear. 

Philip  Doddridge. 


0,  HAPPY  'lay  that  fixed  my  choice 
On  thee,  my  Saviour  and  my  God  ! 

Well  may  this  glowing  heart  rejoice, 
And  tell  its  raptures  all  abroad. 


HOPEFULLY   WAITING. 

"  Blessed  are  they  who  are  homesick,  for  they  shall  come  at  lasl 
to  their  Father's  house.'V-  HEINRICH  STILLING. 

Not  as  you  meant,  0  learned  man,  and  good  ! 
Do  I  accept  thy  words  of  truth  and  rest ; 
God,  knowing  all,  knows  what  for  me  is  best. 
And  gives  me  what  I  need,  not  what  he  could, 

Nor  always  as  I  would  ! 
I  shall  go  to  the  Father's  house,  and  see 

Him  and  the  Elder  Brother  face  to  face,  — 
What  day  or  hour  I  know  not.     Let  me  be 
Steadfast  in  work,  and  earnest  in  the  race, 
Not  as  a  homesick  child  who  all  day  long 
Whinesatitsplay,  and  seldom  speaks  in  song 

If  for  a  time  some  loved  one  goes  away, 
And  leaves  us  our  appointed  work  to  do, 
Can  we  to  him  or  to  ourselves  be  true 
In  mourning  his  departure  day  by  day, 

And  so  our  work  delay  ■ 
Nay,  if  we  love  and  honor,  we  shall  make 

The  absence  brief  by  doing  well  our  task,  — 
Not  for  ourselves,  but  for  the  dear  One's  sake  ! 
And  at  his  coming  only  of  him  ask 

Approval  of  the  work,  which  most  was  done. 
Not  for  ourselves,  but  our  Beloved  One  ! 

Our  Father's  house,  I  know,  is  broad  and  grand  ; 
In  it  how  many,  many  mansions  are  ! 
And  far  beyond  the  light  of  sun  or  star, 
Four  little  ones  of  mine  through  that  fair  land 

Aie  walking  hand  in  hand  ! 
Think  yon  I  love  not,  or  that  1  forget 

These  of  my  loins  ?     Still  this  world  is  fair, 
And  I  am  singing  while  my  eyes  are  wet 
With  weeping  in  this  balmy  summer  air  : 
Yet  I  'm  not  homesick,  and  the  children  here 
Have  need  of  me,  and  so  my  way  is  clear. 

I  would  be  joyful  as  my  days  go  by, 

Counting  God's  mercies  to  me.      He  who  bore 


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Life's  heaviest  cross  is  mine  forevermore, 
And  I  who  wait  his  coming,  shall  not  I 

On  his  sure  word  rely  ? 
And  if  sometimes  the  way  be  rough  and  steep, 

Be  heavy  for  the  grief  he  sends  to  me, 
Or  at  my  waking  I  would  only  weep, 
Let  me  remember  these  are  things  to  be, 
To  work  his  blessed  will  until  he  come 
And  take  my  hand,  and  lead  me  safely  home. 

A.  D.  F.  Randolph. 


IS   THIS  ALL? 

FROM    "HYMNS    OF    FAITH    AND   PEACE." 

Sometimes  I  catch  sweet  glimpses  of  His  face, 

But  that  is  all. 
Sometimes  lie  looks  on  me,  and  seems  to  smile, 

But  that  is  all. 
Sometimes  he  speaks  a  passing  word  of  peace, 

But  that  is  all. 
Sometimes  I  think  I  hear  his  loving  voice 

Upon  me  call. 

And  is  this  all  he  meant  when  thus  he  spoke, 

"  Come  unto  me  "  ? 
Is  there  no  deeper,  more  enduring  rest 

In  him  for  thee  ? 
Is  there  no  steadier  light  for  thee  in  him  ? 

0,  come  and  see  ! 

O,  come  and  see  !  0,  look,  and  look  again  ! 

All  shall  be  right ; 
0,  taste  his  love,  and  see  that  it  is  good, 

Thou  child  of  night ! 
0,  trust  thou,  trust  thou  in  his  grace  and  power  ! 

Then  all  is  bright. 

Nay,  do  not  wrong  him  by  thy  heavy  thoughts, 

But  love  his  love. 
Do  thou  full  justice  to  his  tenderness, 

His  mercy  prove  ; 
Take  him  for  what  he  is  ;  0,  take  him  all, 

And  look  above  ! 

Then  shall  thy  tossing  soul  find  anchorage 

And  steadfast  peace  ; 
Thy  love  shall  rest  on  his  ;  thy  weary  doubts 

Forever  cease. 
Thy  heart  shall  find  in  him  and  in  his  grace 

Its  rest  and  bliss  ! 

Christ  and  his  love  shall  be  thy  blessed  all 

Forevermore  ! 
Christ  and  his  light  shall  shine  on  all  thy  ways 

Forevermore  ! 
Christ  and  his  peace  shall  keep  thy  troubled  soul 

Forevermore  ! 

HORATIUS  BONAR. 


0  DEAREST  LAMB,  TAKE  THOU  MY 
HEART ! 

0  dearest  Lamb,  take  thou  my  heart ! 
Where  can  such  sweetness  be 

As  I  have  tasted  in  thy  love, 
As  I  have  found  in  thee  ? 

If  there 's  a  fervor  in  my  soul, 

And  fervor  sure  there  is, 
Now  it  shall  be  at  thy  control, 

And  but  to  serve  thee  rise. 

If  love,  that  mildest  flame,  can  rest 

In  hearts  so  hard  as  mine, 
Come,  gentle  Saviour,  to  my  breast, 

Its  love  shall  all  be  thine. 

Now  the  gay  world  with  treacherous  art 
Shall  tempt  my  heart  in  vain  ; 

1  have  conveyed  away  that  heart, 
Ne'er  to  return  again. 

'T  is  heaven  on  earth  to  taste  his  love, 

To  feel  his  quickening  grace, 
And  all  the  heaven  I  hope  above 

Is  but  to  see  his  face. 

Moravian  Collection  of  Hymns. 


THE  DYING  SAVIOUR. 

0  sacred  Head,  now  wounded, 

With  grief  and  shame  weighed  down  ; 
Now  scornfully  surrounded 

With  thorns,  thy  only  crown  ; 
0  sacred  Head,  what  glory, 

What  bliss,  till  now  was  thine  ! 
Yet,  though  despised  and  gory, 

I  joy  to  call  thee  mine. 

0  noblest  brow  and  dearest, 

In  other  days  the  world 
All  feared  when  thou  appearedst ; 

What  shame  on  thee  is  hurled  ! 
How  art  thou  pale  with  anguish, 

With  sore  abuse  and  scorn  ! 
How  does  that  visage  languish 

Which  once  was  bright  as  morn  ! 

What  language  shall  I  borrow, 

To  thank  thee,  dearest  Friend, 
For  this  thy  dying  sorrow, 

Thy  pity  without  end  ! 
0,  make  me  thine  forever, 

And  should  I  fainting  be, 
Lord,  let  me  never,  never, 

Outlive  my  love  to  thee. 


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If  I,  a  wretch,  should  leave  thee, 

0  Jesus,  leave  not  me  ! 
In  faith  may  I  receive  thee, 

"When  death  shall  set  me  free. 
When  strength  and  comfort  languish, 

And  I  must  hence  depart, 
Eelease  me  then  from  anguish, 

By  thine  own  wounded  heart. 

Be  near  when  I  am  dying, 

0,  show  thy  cross  to  me  ! 
And  for  my  succor  flying, 

Come,  Lord,  to  set  me  free. 
These  eyes  new  faith  receiving, 

From  Jesus  shall  not  move  ; 

For  he  who  dies  believing 

Dies  safely  —  through  thy  love. 

Paul  Gerhardt. 


MARY   TO   HER   SAVIOUR'S   TOMB  — 

Mary  to  her  Saviour's  tomb 

Hasted  at  the  early  dawn  ; 
Spice  she  brought,  and  rich  perfume,  — 

But  the  Lord  she  loved  was  gone. 
For  a  while  she  weeping  stood, 

Struck  with  sorrow  and  surprise, 
Shedding  tears,  a  plenteous  flood, 

For  her  heart  supplied  her  eyes. 

Jesus,  who  is  always  near, 

Though  too  often  un perceived, 
Conies  his  drooping  child  to  cheer, 

Kindly  asking  why  she  grieved. 
Though  at  first  she  knew  him  not,  — 

When  he  called  her  by  her  name, 
Then  her  griefs  were  all  forgot, 

For  she  found  he  was  the  same. 

Grief  and  sighing  quickly  fled 

When  she  heard  his  welcome  voice; 
Just  before  she  thought  him  dead, 

Now  he  bids  her  heart  rejoice. 
What  a  change  his  word  can  make, 

Turning  darkness  into  day  ! 
Ymi  who  weep  for  Jesus'  sake, 

He  will  wipe  your  tears  away. 

He  who  ciinic  to  comfort  her 

"When  she  though!  her  all  was  lost 
Will  I'm-  your  relief  appear, 

Though  you  now  are  tempest-tossed. 
On  his  wind  ymir  burden  cast, 

On  his  love  your  thoughts  employ  ; 
Weeping  for  a  while  may  last, 

But  the  morning  brings  the  joy. 

Jul  in  Newton. 


THE   ASCENSION   OF   CHRIST. 

"  Bright  portals  of  the  sky, 
Embossed  with  sparkling  stars  ; 
Doors  of  eternity, 
With  diamantine  bars, 
Your  arras  rich  uphold  ; 
Loose  all  your  bolts  and  springs, 
Ope  wide  your  leaves  of  gold  ; 
That  in  your  roofs  may  come  the  King  of  kings. 

"Scarfed  in  a  rosy  cloud, 
He  doth  ascend  the  air  ; 
Straight  doth  the  Moon  him  shroud 
With  her  resplendent  hair  ; 
The  next  encrystalled  light 
Submits  to  him  its  beams  ; 
And  he  doth  trace  the  height 
Of  that  fair  lamp  which  flames  of  beauty  streams. 

"The  choirs  of  happy  souls, 
Wakod  with  that  music  sweet, 
Whose  descant  care  controls, 
Their  Lord  in  triumph  meet ; 
The  spotless  spirits  of  light 
His  trophies  do  extol, 
And,  arched  in  squadrons  bright, 
Greet  their  great  Victor  in  his  capitol. 

"  0  glory  of  the  Heaven  I 

0  sole  delight  of  Earth  ! 

To  thee  all  power  be  given, 

God's  uncreated  birth  ; 

Of  mankind  lover  true, 

Endurer  of  his  wrong, 

Who  dost  the  world  renew, 

Still  be  thou  our  salvation,  and  our  song." 

From  top  of  Olivet  such  notes  did  rise, 

When  man's  Redeemer  did  transcend  the  skies. 

William  Drummond. 


TREMBLING,    BEFORE   THINE   AWFUL 
THRONE  — 

Trembling,  before  thine  awful  throne, 
0  Lord  !  in  dust  my  sins  1  own  : 
Justice  and  Mercy  for  my  life 
Contend  !  —  0,  smile,  and  heal  the  strife. 

The  Saviour  smiles  !   upon  my  soul 
New  tides  of  hope  tumultuous  roll. 
His  voice  proclaims  my  pardon  found, 
Seraphic  transport  wings  the  sound  ! 

Earth  has  ;i  joy  unknown  in  heaven,  — 
The  new-born  peace  of  sins  forgiven  ! 
Tears  of  such  pure  and  deep  delight, 
Ye  angels  !  never  dimmed  your  sight.  " 


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Ye  saw  of  old  on  chaos  rise 
The  beauteous  pillars  of  the  skies  ; 
Ye  know  where  morn  exulting  springs, 
And  evening  folds  her  drooping  wings. 

Bright  heralds  of  th'  Eternal  Will, 
Abroad  his  errands  ye  fulfil ; 
Or,  throned  in  floods  of  beamy  day, 
Symphonious,  in  his  presence  play. 

Loud  is  the  song,  the  heavenly  plain 
Is  shaken  by  the  choral  strain, 
And  dying  echoes,  floating  far, 
Draw  music  from  each  chiming  star. 

But  I  amid  your  choirs  shall  shine, 
And  all  your  knowledge  will  be  mine  ; 
Ye  on  your  harps  must  lean  to  hear 

A  secret  chord  that  mine  will  bear. 

I  Thomas  Hillhouse. 


NEARER,    MY   GOD,    TO   THEE. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me  ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be,  — 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Though,  like  the  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone  ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Neai-er  to  thee  ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 

Steps  unto  heaven  ; 
All  that  thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given  ; 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Then  with  my  waking  thoughts, 
Bright  with  thy  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel  I  '11  raise  ; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing, 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upward  I  fly  ; 


Still  all  my  song  shall  be,  — 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee. 

Sarah  F.  Adams. 


FROM   THE   RECESSES   OF   A   LOWLY 
SPIRIT. 

From  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit, 
Our  humble  prayer  ascends  ;  0  Father  !  hear  it. 
Upsoaring  on  the  wings  of  awe  and  meekness, 
Forgive  its  weakness  ! 

We  see  thy  hand,  —  it  leads  us,  it  supports  us  ; 
We  hear  thy  voice,  —  it  counsels  and  it  courts  us  ; 
And  then  we  turn  away  ;  and  still  thy  kindness 
Forgives  our  blindness. 

0,  how  long-suffering,  Lord  !  but  thou  delightest 
To  win  with  love  the  wandering  :  thou  invitest, 
By  smiles  of  mercy,  not  by  frowns  o:-  tenors, 
Man  from  his  errors. 

Father  and  Saviour  !  plant  within  each  bosom 
The  seeds  of  holiness,  and  bid  them  blossom 
In  fragrance  and  in  beauty  bright  and  vernal, 
And  spring  eternal. 

JOHN  BOWRING. 


PRAISE   TO   GOD,    IMMORTAL   PRAISE. 

Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise, 
For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days, — 
Bounteous  source  of  every  joy, 
Let  thy  praise  our  tongues  employ  ! 

For  the  blessings  of  the  field, 
For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 
For  the  vine's  exalted  juice, 
For  the  generous  olive's  use  ; 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain, 
Yellow  sheaves  of  ripened  grain, 
Clouds  that  drop  their  fattening  dews, 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse  ; 

All  that  Spring,  with  bounteous  hand, 
Scatters  o'er  the  smiling  land ; 
All  that  liberal  Autumn  pours 
From  her  rich  o'erflowing  stores  : 

These  to  thee,  my  God,  we  owe, — 
Source  whence  all  our  blessings  flow  ! 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 

Yet  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear, 


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POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


— Bj 

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Should  the  fig-tree's  blasted  shoot 
Drop  her  green  untimely  fruit,  — 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 
Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store,  — 
Though  the.  sickening  flocks  should  fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall,  — 

Should  thine  altered  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain, 
Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 
Aud  the  rising  year  destroy  ;  — 

Yet  to  thee  my  soul  should  raise 

Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise, 

And,  when  every  blessing's  flown, 

Love  thee  —  for  thyself  alone. 

Anna  L/etitia  Barbauld. 


WHEN  ALL  THY  MERCIES,   0  MY   GOD  ! 

When  all  thy  mercies,  0  my  God  ! 

My  rising  soul  surveys, 
Transported  with  the  view,  I  'm  lost 

In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 

0,  how  shall  words  with  equal  warmth 

The  gratitude  declare 
That  glows  within  my  ravished  heart  ?  — 

But  thou  canst  read  it  there  ! 

Thy  providence  my  life  sustained, 

And  all  my  wants  redrest, 
When  in  the  silent  womb  I  lay, 

And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

To  all  my  weak  complaints  and  cries 
'     Thy  mercy  lent  an  ear, 
Ere  yet  my  feeble  thoughts  had  learnt 
To  form  themselves  in  prayer. 

Unnumbered  comforts  to  my  soul 

Thy  tender  care  bestowed, 
Before  my  infant  heart  conceived 

From  whom  those  comforts  flowed. 

When  in  the  slippery  paths  of  youth 

With  heedless  steps  I  ran, 
Thiin'  arm  unseen  conveyed  me  safe, 

And  Led  me  up  to  man. 

Through  hidden  dangers,  toils,  and  deaths, 

It  gently  cleared  my  way. 
Ami  through  the  pleasing  snares  <if  vice,  — 

More  to  lie  feared  than  they. 

When  worn  with  sickness  oft  hast  thou 

With  health  renewed  my  face  ; 
Ami,  when  in  sins  ami  B0IT0W8  sunk, 

Revived  my  soul  with  grace. 


Thy  bounteous  hand  with  worldly  bliss 

Has  made  my  cup  run  o'er, 
And  in  a  kind  and  faithful  friend 

Has  doubled  all  my  store. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  precious  gifts 

My  daily  thanks  employ  ; 
Nor  is  the  least  a  cheerful  heart, 

That  tastes  those  gifts  with  joy. 

Through  every  period  of  my  life 

Thy  goodness  I  '11  pursue  ; 
And  after  death,  in  distant  worlds, 

The  glorious  theme  renew. 

When  nature  fails,  and  day  and  night 

Divide  thy  works  no  more, 
My  ever-grateful  heart,  0  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  shall  adore. 

Through  all  eternity  to  thee 

A  joyful  song  I  '11  raise  ; 
For  0,  eternity  's  too  short 

To  utter  all  thy  praise  ! 

Joseph  Addison. 


THE   MINISTRY   OF  ANGELS! 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven?     And  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatines  base, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 
There  is  :  — else  much  more  wretched  were  the 

case 
Of  men  then  beasts  :  but  0  the  exceeding  grace 
Of  Highest  God  !  that  loves  his  creatures  so, 
And  all  his  workes  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and  fro, 

To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  Ids  wicked  foe  ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave, 
To  come  to  succour  us  that  succour  want  ! 
How  oft  do  they  with  goldon  pinions  cleave 
The  flitting  skyes,  like  flying  pursuivant, 
Against  fowle  feendes  to  ayd  us  militant  ! 
They  for  us  light,  they  watch,  ami  dewly  ward, 
And  their  h  right  squadrons  round  about  us  plant; 
And  all  for  love,  and  nothing  for  reward  ; 

0,  why  should  heavenly  t!od  to  men  have  such 

regard  I 

Edmund  Spenser. 


ETERNAL   SOURCE   OF   EVERY  JOY! 
Eternal  Source  of  every  joy  ! 

Well  may  thy  praise  our  lips  employ, 

While  in  thy  temple  we  appear 

Whose  goodness  crowns  the  circling  year. 


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While  as  the  wheels  of  nature  roll, 
Thy  hand  supports  the  steady  pole  ; 
The  sun  is  taught  by  thee  to  rise, 
And  darkness  when  to  veil  the  skies. 

The  flowery  spring  at  thy  command 
Embalms  the  air,  and  paints  the  land  ; 
The  summer  rays  with  vigor  shine 
To  raise  the  corn,  and  cheer  the  vine. 

Thy  hand  in  autumn  richly  pours 
Through  all  our  coasts  redundant  stores  ; 
And  winters,  softened  by  thy  care, 
No  more  a  face  of  horror  wear. 

Seasons,  and  months,  and  weeks,  and  days 
Demand  successive  songs  of  praise  ; 
Still  be  the  cheerful  homage  paid 
With  opening  light  and  evening  shade. 

Here  in  thy  house  shall  incense  rise, 
As  circling  Sabbaths  bless  our  eyes  ; 
Still  will  we  make  thy  mercies  known 
Around  thy  board,  and  round  our  own. 

0,  may  our  more  harmonious  tongues 
In  worlds  unknown  pursue  the  songs  ; 
And  in  those  brighter  courts  adore, 
Where  days  and  years  revolve  no  more. 

PHILIP  DODDRIDGE. 


THE  SPACIOUS   FIRMAMENT   ON  HIGH. 

(This  hymn  originally  appeared  in  the  Spectator,  and  is  thence 
popularly,  but  erroneously,  supposed  to  have  been  composed  by 
Addison.] 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim  ; 
The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 

Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  ; 
While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 

What  though  no  real  voice  or  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 


In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

•  And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 

"■  Tlic  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine  /" 

ANDREW  MARVELL. 


LORD  !  WHEN  THOSE  GLORIOUS  LIGHTS 
1  SEE. 

HYMN    AND    PRAYER    FOR    THE    USE   OF   BELIEVERS. 

Lord  !  when  those  glorious  lights  I  see 

With  which  thou  hast  adorned  the  skies, 
Observing  how  they  moved  be, 

And  how  their  splendor  fills  mine  eyes, 
Methinks  it  is  too  large  a  grace, 

But  that  thy  love  ordained  it  so,  — 
That  creatures  in  so  high  a  place 

Should  servants  be  to  man  below. 

The  meanest  lamp  now  shining  there 

In  size  and  lustre  doth  exceed. 
The  noblest  of  thy  creatures  here, 

And  of  our  friendship  hath  no  need. 
Yet  these  upon  mankind  attend 

For  secret  aid  or  public  light ; 
And  from  the  world's  extremest  end 

Repair  unto  us  every  night. 

0,  had  that  stamp  been  undefaced 

Which  first  on  us  thy  hand  had  set, 
How  highly  should  we  have  been  graced, 

Since  we  are  so  much  honored  yet ! 
Good  God,  for  what  but  for  the  sake 

Of  thy  beloved  and  only  Son, 
Who  did  on  him  our  nature  take, 

Were  these  exceeding  favors  done  ! 

As  we  by  him  have  honored  been, 
Let  us  to  him  due  honors  give  ; 

Let  his  uprightness  hide  our  sin, 
And  let  us  worth  from  him  receive. 

Yea,  so  let  us  by  grace  improve 
What  thou  by  nature  doth  bestow, 

That  to  thy  dwelling-place  above 

We  may  be  raised  from  below. 

George  Wither. 


-♦ 


HYMN. 

BEFORE   SUNRISE,    IN    THE   VALE  OF   CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a  chawn  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course  ?   So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  0  sovereign  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form, 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines 
How  silently  !    Around  thee  and  above 


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Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black,  — 
An  ebon  mass.     Methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge  !    But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount  !    I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought.     Entranced  in 

prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  mean  while,  wast  blending  with  my 

thought,  — 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy,  — 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing,  there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul  !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest  !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy  !    Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !    Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale  ! 
0,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink,  — 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald,  —  wake,  0,  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 
Who  culled  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength;  your  speed,  yourfury,  and  yourjoy, 
rnceasin^  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came'), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain, — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?   Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,   witli  living 

flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feel  ' 
God  I  —  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 


Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God  I   sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome 

voice  ! 
Ye   pine-groves,  with   your   soft   and   soul-like 

sounds  ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  ilowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost  ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest  ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements  ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Thou,  too,  hoar  Mount  !  with  thy  sky-pointing 

peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure 

serene, 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast,  — 

Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !   thou 

That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 

To  rise  before  me,  —  Rise,  0,  ever  rise  ! 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth  ! 

Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 

Great  Hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 

Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


THOU   ART,    0    GOD  — 

"  The  day  is  thine,  the  night  also  is  thine  :  thou  hast  prepared 
the  light  and  the  sun.  Thou  hast  set  all  the  borders  of  the  earth  : 
thou  hast  made  summer  and  winter." —  PSALM  lxxiv.  16,  17. 

TimiT  art,  0  God,  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  sec  ; 

Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night, 
Are  but  reflections  caught  from  thee. 

Where'er  we  turn  thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine  ! 

When  day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  opening  clouds  of  even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 
Through  golden  vistas  into  heaven,  — 

Those  hues  that  make  the  sun's  decline 

So  soft,  so  radiant.   Lord  !  arc  tlijne. 

When  night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 

O'ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 
Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,   whose  plume 

Is  sparkling  with  unnumbered  eyes,  — 

That  sacred  gloom,  those  tires  divine, 

So  grand,  so  countless,  Lord  !  are  thine. 


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When  youthful  spring  around  us  breathes, 

Thy  Spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh  ; 
And  every  (lower  the  summer  wreathes 

Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 

"Where'er  we  turn,  thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE   HEAVENS   DECLARE  THY   GLORY, 
LORD! 

PSALM   XIX. 

TriE  heavens  declare  thy  glory,  Lord  ! 

In  every  star  thy  wisdom  shines  ; 
But  when  our  eyes  behold  thy  word, 

We  read  thy  name  in  fairer  lines. 

The  rolling  sun,  the  changing  light, 

And  nights  and  days  thy  power  confess  ; 

But  the  blest  volume  thou  hast  writ 
Reveals  thy  justice  and  thy  grace. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  convey  thy  praise 
Round  the  whole  earth,  and  never  stand  ; 

So  when  thy  truth  began  its  race 

It  touched  and  glanced  on  every  land. 

Nor  shall  thy  spreading  gospel  rest 

Till  through  the  world  thy  truth  has  run  ; 

Till  Christ  has  all  the  nations  blest 
That  see  the  light  or  feel  the  sun. 

Great  Sun  of  Piighteousness,  arise  ! 

Bless  the  dark  world  with  heavenly  light  ! 
Thy  gospel  makes  the  simple  wise,  — 

Thy  laws  are  pure,  thy  judgments  right. 

Thy  noblest  wonders  here  we  view, 

In  souls  renewed  and  sins  forgiven  ; 

Lord,  cleanse  my  sins,  my  soul  renew, 

And  make  thy  word  my  guide  to  heaven  ! 

Isaac  Watts. 


GOD    MOVES    IN   A   MYSTERIOUS   WAY. 

Gon  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform  ; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill 
He  treasures  up  his  bright  designs, 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take  ! 

The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 

In  blessings  on  your  head. 


Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  him  for  his  grace  ; 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 


He  hides  a  smiling  face. 


His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour  ; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 
•    But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 

And  scan  his  work  in  vain  ; 

God  is  his  own  interpreter, 

And  he  will  make  it  plain. 

William  Cowper. 


THROUGH   LIFE'S   VAPORS   DIMLY 
SEEING. 

Through  life's  vapors  dimly  seeing, 

Who  but  longs  for  light  to  break ! 
Othe  feverish  dream  of  being  ! 

When,  0,  when  shall  we  awake  ? 
0  the  hour  when  this  material 

Shall  have  vanished  as  a  cloud,  — 
When  amid  the  wide  ethereal 

All  the  invisible  shall  crowd,  — 

And  the  naked  soul,  surrounded 

With  realities  unknown, 
Triumph  in  the  view  unbounded, 

Feel  herself  with  God  alone  ! 
In  that  sudden,  strange  transition, 

By  what  new  and  liner  sense 
Shall  she  grasp  the  mighty  vision, 

And  receive  its  influence  ? 

Angels,  guard  the  new  immortal, 

Through  the  wonder-teeming  space, 
To  the  everlasting  portal, 

To  the  spirit's  resting-place. 
Till  the  trump,  which  shakes  creation, 

Through  the  circling  heavens  shall  roll, 
Till  the  day  of  consummation, 

Till  the  bridal  of  the  soul. 

Jesus,  blessed  Mediator  ! 

Thou  the  airy  path  hast  trod  ; 
Thou  the  Judge,  the  Consummator  ! 

Shepherd  of  the  fold  of  God  ! 
Can  I  trust  a  fellow-being  ? 

Can  I  trust  an  angel's  care  ? 
0  thou  merciful  All-seeing  ! 

Beam  around  my  spirit  there. 

Blessed  fold  !  no  foe  can  enter  ; 

And  no  friend  departeth  thence  ; 
Jesus  is  their  sun,  their  centre, 

And  their  shield  Omnipotence. 


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Blessed  !  for  the  Lamb  shall  feed  them, 
All  their  tears  shall  wipe  away, 

To  the  living  fountains  lead  them, 
Till  fruition's  perfect  day. 

Lo  !  it  comes,  that  day  of  wonder  ! 

Louder  chorals  shake  the  skies  ; 
Hades'  gates  are  burst  asunder  ; 

See  !  the  new-clothed  myriads  rise. 
Thought  !  repress  thy  weak  endeavor ; 

Here  must  reason  prostrate  fall ; 
0  the  ineffable  Forever  ! 

And  the  eternal  All  in  All ! 

CONDER. 


SOUND   THE   LOUD   TIMBEEL. 
Miriam's  song. 

"  And  Miriam  the  prophetess,  the  sister  of  Aaron,  took  a  timbrel 
in  her  hand  ;  and  all  the  women  went  out  after  her  with  timbrels 
and  with  dances "  —  EXOD.  xv.  20. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea  ! 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free  ! 
Sing,  —  for  the  pride  of  the  tyrant  is  broken, 

His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid  and 
brave,  — 
How  vain  was  their  boasting  !  the  Lord  hath  but 
spoken, 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the  wave. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea  ! 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free  ! 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord  ! 
His  word  was  our  arrow,  his  breath  was  our  sword. 
"Who  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 

Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her  pride  1 
For  the  Lord  hath  looked  out  from  his  pillar  of 

glory. 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dashed  in  the 

tide. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea  ! 

Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


CHILDREN  OF  GOD,   WHO,   FAINT  AND 
SLOW  — 

Children  of  God,  who,  faint  and  slow, 

Your  pilgrim-path  pursue, 
In  strength  and  weakness,  joy  and  woe, 

To  God's  high  calling  true  !  — 

Why  move  ye  thus,  with  lingering  tread, 

A  doubting,  mournful  band  .' 
Why  faintly  hangs  the  drooping  head  ? 

Why  fails  the  feeble  hand] 


0,  weak  to  know  a  Saviour's  power, 

To  feel  a  "Father's  care  ! 
A  moment's  toil,  a  passing  shower, 

Is  all  the  grief  ye  share. 

The  orb  of  light,  though  clouds  awhile 

May  hide  his  noontide  ray, 
Shall  soon  in  lovelier  beauty  smile 

To  gild  the  closing  day,  — 

And,  bursting  through  the  dusky  shroud 

That  dared  his  power  invest, 
Ride  throned  in  light,  o'er  every  cloud, 

Triumphant  to  his  rest. 

Then,  Christian,  dry  the  falling  tear, 

The  faithless  doubt  remove  ; 
Redeemed  at  last  from  guilt  and  fear, 

0,  wake  thy  heart  to  love  ! 

BOWDLER. 


I   STAND    ON   ZION'S   MOUNT. 

I  stand  on  Zion's  mount, 
And  view  my  starry  crown  ; 

No  power  on  earth  my  hope  can  shake, 
Nor  hell  can  thrust  me  down. 

The  lofty  hills  and  towers, 
That  lift  their  heads  on  high, 

Shall  all  be  levelled  low  in  dust,  — 
Their  very  names  shall  die. 

The  vaulted  heavens  shall  fall, 

Built  by  Jehovah's  hands  ; 

But  firmer  than  the  heavens  the  Rock 

Of  my  salvation  stands. 

Charles  swain. 


THE   LORD   MY    PASTURE   SHALL   PRE- 
PARE. 

PSALM    XXIII. 

Tttf.  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care  ; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye  ; 
My  noonday  walks  he  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

When  in  the  sultry  glebe  1  faint, 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountains  pant, 

To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  mends, 
My  weary,  wandering  steps  he  leads, 
"Where  peaceful  rivers  soft  and  slow 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  How. 


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Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread, 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill  ; 
For  thou,  0  Lord,  art  with  me  still  : 
Thy  friendly  erook  shall  give  me  aid, 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  pains  beguile  ; 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile, 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crowned, 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 

JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


AMAZING,    BEAUTEOUS  CHANGE! 

Amazing,  beauteous  change  ! 
A  world  created  new  ! 
My  thoughts  with  transport  range, 
The  lovely  scene  to  view  ; 

In  all  1  trace, 

Saviour  divine, 

The  work  is  thine,  — 

Be  thine  the  praise  ! 

See  crystal  fountains  play 
Amidst  the  burning  sands  ; 
The  river's  winding  way 
Shines  through  the  thirsty  lands  ; 

New  grass  is  seen, 

And  o'er  the  meads 

Its  carpet  spreads 

Of  living  green. 

Where  pointed  brambles  grew, 
Intwined  with  horrid  thorn, 
Gay  flowers,  forever  new, 
The  painted  fields  adorn,  — 

The  blushing  rose 

And  lily  there, 

In  union  fair 

Their  sweets  disclose. 

Where  the  bleak  mountain  stood 
All  bare  and  disarrayed, 
See  the  wide-branching  wood 
Diffuse  its  grateful  shade  ; 

Tall  cedars  nod, 

And  oaks  and  pines, 

And  elms  and  vines 

Confess  the  God. 

The  tyrants  of  the  plain 
Their  savage  chase  give  o'er,  — 
No  more  they  rend  the  slain, 
And  thirst  for  blood  no  more  ; 

But  infant  hands 

Fierce  tigers  stroke, 


And  lions  yoke 
In  flowery  bands. 

0,  when,  Almighty  Lord  ! 
Shall  these  glad  scenes  arise, 
To  verify  thy  word, 
And  bless  our  wondering  eyes.? 

That  earth  may  raise, 

With  all  its  tongues, 

United  songs 

Of  ardent  praise. 


Philip  Doddridge. 


0,    HOW  THE  THOUGHT  OF   GRACE 
ATTRACTS ! 

0,  now  the  thought  of  God  attracts 
And  draws  the  heart  from  earth, 

And  sickens  it  of  passing  shows 
And  dissipating  mirth  ! 

God  only  is  the  creature's  home, 
Though  long  and  rough  the  road  ; 

Yet  nothing  less  can  satisfy 
The  love  that  longs  for  God. 

0,  utter  but  the  name  of  God 
Down  in  your  heart  of  hearts, 

And  see  how  from  the  world  at  once 
All  tempting  light  departs. 

A  trusting  heart,  a  yearning  eye, 

Can  win  their  way  above  ; 
If  mountains  can  be  moved  by  faith, 

Is  there  less  power  in  love  ? 

How  little  of  that  road,  my  soul, 
How  little  hast  thou  gone  ! 

Take  heart,  and  let  the  thought  of  God 
Allure  thee  farther  on. 

•  Dole  not  thy  duties  out  to  God, 
But  let  thy  hand  be  free  ; 
Look  long  at  Jesus  ;  his  sweet  blood, 
How  was  it  dealt  to  thee  ? 

The  perfect  way  is  hard  to  flesh  ; 

It  is  not  hard  to  love  ; 
If  thou  wert  sick  for  want  of  God 

How  swiftly  wouldst  thou  move  ! 

FABER. 


BEFORE    JEHOVAH'S    AWFUL   THRONE. 

Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne, 
Ye  nations,  bow  with  sacred  joy  ; 

Know  that  the  Lord  is  God  alone  : 
He  can  create,  and  he  destroy. 


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His  sovereign  power,  without  our  aid, 
Made  us  of  clay,  and  formed  us  men  ; 

And  when,  like  wandering  sheep,  we  strayed, 
He  brought  us  to  his  fold  again. 

We  are  his  people  ;  we  his  care,  — 
Our  souls,  and  all  our  mortal  frame  ; 

"What  lasting  honors  shall  we  rear, 
Almighty  Maker,  to  thy  name  ? 

"We  '11  crowd  thy  gates  with  thankful  songs  ; 

High  as  the  heaven  our  voices  raise  ; 
And  Earth,  with  her  ten  thousand  tongues, 

Shall  fill  thy  courts  with  sounding  praise. 

WTide  as  the  world  is  thy  command  ; 

Vast  as  eternity  thy  love  ; 
Firm  as  a  rock  thy  truth  shall  stand 

When  rolling  years  shall  cease  to  move. 

ISAAC  WATTS. 


AND  LET  THIS  FEEBLE  BODY  DIE. 

And  let  this  feeble  body  fail, 

And  let  it  faint  or  die  ; 
My  soul  shall  quit  this  mournful  vale, 

And  soar  to  worlds  on  high  ; 
Shall  join  the  disembodied  saints, 

And  find  its  long-sought  rest, 
That  only  bliss  for  which  it  pants, 

In  the  Redeemer's  breast. 

In  hope  of  that  immortal  crown 

I  now  the  cross  sustain  ; 
And  gladly  wander  up  and  down, 

And  smile  at  toil  and  pain. 
I  suffer  on  my  threescore  years, 

Till  my  Deliverer  come, 
And  wipe  away  his  servant's  tears, 

And  take  his  exile  home. 

0,  what  hath  Jesus  bought  for  me  ? 

Before  my  ravished  eye, 
Rivers  of  life  divine  I  see, 

Ami  trees  of  Paradise  ! 
I  sir  ;i  world  of  spirits  bright, 

"Who  taste  die  pleasures  there  ! 
They  all  are  robed  in  spotless  white, 

And  conquering  palms  they  bear. 

0,  what  are  all  my  sufferings  here, 

If,  Lord,  thou  count  me  meet 
With  that  enraptured  host  to  appear, 

A  n.  I  win-ship  at  thy  feet  ! 
i  rive  joy  or  grief,  give  ease  or  pain  ; 

Take  life  or  friends  away, 
l'iut  let  me  liml  them  all  again 

In  thai  eternal  day. 

CHARLES  WESLEY. 


THE   SABBATH. 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day  ! 

Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed 

The   plough-boy's   whistle   and  the  milkmaid's 

song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  yestermorn  bloomed  waving  in  the  breeze  ; 
Sounds   the   most   faint  attract  the  ear,  —  the 

hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew, 
The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas 
The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the 

dale  ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song ;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-worn  glen  ; 
While    from    yon    lowly   roof,    whose    circling 

smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  intervals 
The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 
With    dovelike    wings    Peace  o'er  yon    village 

broods  ; 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests  ;  the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceased  ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 
Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on 

man, 

Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toilworn  horse,  set  free, 

Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large  ; 

And  as  his  stiff,  unwieldly  bulk  he  rolls, 

His  iron-amied  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

James  Gkaha.me. 


THE   MEETING. 

The  elder  folk  shook  hands  at  last, 

Down  seat  by  seat  the  signal  passed. 

To  simple  ways  like  ours  unused, 

Half  solemnized  and  half  amused, 

With  long-drawn  breath  and  shrug,  my  guest 

His  sense  of  glad  relief  expressed. 

Outside  the  lulls  lay  warm  in  sun  ; 

The  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 

Stood  half-leg  deep  ;  a  single  bird 

The  green  repose  above  as  stirred. 

"What  pari  or  hit  have  you,"  he  said, 

"  In  these  dull  litis  .if  drowsy-head  ? 

Is  silence  worship  '     Seek  it  where 

It  soothes  with  dreams  the  summer  air, 
Not  in  this  close  and  rude-benched  hall, 

Bui   where     i. It    Lights  and  shallows  fall, 

Ami  all  the  slow,  Bleep-walking  hours 

Glide  soundless  over  trra  -  and  Rowel's  ! 


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POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


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From  time  and  place  and  form  apart, 

Its  holy  ground  the  human  heart, 

Nor  ritual-bound  nor  templeward 

Walks  the  free  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 

Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 

His  followers  up  from  other  men  ; 

His  service  liberty  indeed, 

He  built  no  church,  lie  framed  no  creed  ; 

But  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 

Made  broader  his  phylactery, 

As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 

The  dusty-sandalled  Nazarene 

Through  ripening  cornfields  lead  the  way 

Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day, 

His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 

That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk, 

His  wayside  texts  were  flowers  and  birds, 

Where  mingled  with  his  gracious  words 

The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 

And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee." 

"  Thy  words  are  well,  0  friend,"  I  said  ; 

"  Unmeasured  and  unlimited, 

With  noiseless  slide  of  stone  to  stone, 

The  mystic  Church  of  God  has  grown. 

Invisible  and  silent  stands 

The  temple  never  made  with  hands, 

Unheard  the  voices  still  and  small 

Of  its  unseen  confessional. 

He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 

Whose  hearing  ear  is  everywhere  ; 

He  brings  not  back  the  childish  days 

That  ringed  the  earth  with  stones  of  praise, 

Roofed  Karnak's  hall  of  gods,  and  laid 

The  plinths  of  Philai's  colonnade. 

Still  less  he  owns  the  selfish  good 

And  sickly  growth  of  solitude,  — 

The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight, 

Flowers  in  the  desert  anchorite  ; 

Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole, 

Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a  soul. 

Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 

And  native  air  and  soil  of  sin, 

The  living  waters  spring  and  flow, 

The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 

"Dream  not,  0  friend,  because  I  seek 
This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 
I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 
Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore  ; 
But  nature  is  not  solitude  ; 
She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood  ; 
Her  many  hands  reach  out  to  us, 
Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous  ; 
Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 
She  offers  to  our  ears  and  eyes  ; 
She  will  not  leave  our  senses  still, 
But  drags  them  captive  at  her  will  ; 


And,  making  earth  too  great  for  heaven, 
She  hides  the  Giver  in  the  given. 

"  And  so  I  find  it  well  to  come 

For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 

For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 

Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control ; 

The  strength  of  mutual  purpose  pleads 

More  earnestly  our  common  needs  ; 

And  from  the  silence  multiplied 

By  these  still  forms  on  either  side, 

The  world  that  time  and  sense  have  known 

Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

' '  Yet  rarely  through  the  charmed  repose 
Un]  nixed  the  stream  of  motive  flows, 
A  flavor  of  its  many  springs, 
The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings  ; 
In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 
Some  shade  of  human  sympathy  ; 
And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 
I  look  on  memory's  dearest  face  ;. 
The  blind  by-sitter  guesseth  not 
What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot ; 
No  eyes  save  mine  alone  can  see 
The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me  ! 
And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin, 
In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin, 
I  bow  my  head,  my  heart  I  bare 
As  when  that  face  was  living  there, 
And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  !  in  vain) 
The  peace  of  simple  trust  to  gain, 
Fold  fancy's  restless  wings,  and  lay 
The  idols  of  my  heart  away. 

"Welcome  the  silence  all  unbroken, 

Nor  less  the  words  of  fitness  spoken,  — 

Such  golden  words  as  hers  for  whom 

Our  autumn  flowers  have  just  made  room  ; 

Whose  hopeful  utterance  through  and  through 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  blew  ; 

Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  light 

Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 

But  saw  in  all  fair  forms  more  fair 

The  Eternal  beauty  mirrored  there. 

Whose  eighty  years  but  added  grace 

And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face,  — 

The  look  of  one  who  bore  away 

Glad  tidings  from  the  hills  of  day, 

While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 

The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet ! 

Or  haply  hers  whose  pilgrim  tread 

Is  in  the  paths  where  Jesus  led  ; 

Who  dreams  her  childhood's  sabbath  dream 

By  Jordan's  willow-shaded  stream, 

And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 

Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nazareth, 

Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 

To  prayer,  from  Moslem  minarets  fall, 


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POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


^87      .. 


Repeating  where  His  works  were  wrought 
The  lesson  that  her  Master  taught, 
Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave, 
The  prophecies  of  Cumae's  cave  ! 

"  I  ask  no  organ's  soulless  breath 

To  drone  the  themes  of  life  and  death, 

No  altar  candle-lit  by  day, 

No  ornate  wordsman's  rhetoric-play, 

No  cool  philosophy  to  teach 

Its  bland  audacities  of  speech 

To  doubled-tasked  idolaters, 

Themselves  their  gods  and  worshippers, 

No  pulpit  hammered  by  the  list 

Of  loud-asserting  dogmatist, 

"Who  burrows  for  the  hand  of  love 

The  smoking  thunderbolts  of  Jove. 

I  know  how  well  the  fathers  taught, 

"What  work  the  later  schoolmen  wrought ; 

I  reverence  old-time  faith  and  men, 

But  God  is  near  us  now  as  then  ; 

His  force  of  love  is  still  unspent, 

His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent ; 

And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 

Outgrows  the  cramping  bounds  of  creeds  ; 

The  manna  gathered  yesterday 

Already  savors  of  decay  ; 

Doubts  to  the  world's  child-heart  unknown 

Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone  ; 

Too  little  or  too  much  we  know, 

And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow  ; 

The  power  is  lost  to  self-deceive 

With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 

We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 

Call  to  a  thousand  oracles, 

But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 

Is  Minuter  than  our  dazzled  sight  ; 

The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 

Glimmer  and  swim  beneath  our  look  ; 

Still  struggles  in  the  Age's  breast 

With  deepening  agony  of  quest 

The  old  entreaty  :   '  Art  thou  He, 

Or  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  be  ? ' 

"  God  should  be  most  where  man  is  least ; 
So,  where  is  neither  church  nor  priest, 
And  never  rag  of  form  or  creed 
To  i  lothe  the  nakedness  of  need,  — 
Where  farmer-foils  in  silence  meet,  — 

I  turn  my  bell-unsui oned  feel  ; 

I  lay  the  critic's  glass  aside, 

1  t  read  upon  my  Lettered  pride, 

And,  lowest-seated,  testify 

To  the  oneness  of  humanity  ; 

Confess  the  universal  want, 

And  share  whatever  Heaven  may  grant. 

He   lilideth   not  who  seeks  his  OWI1, 

The  soul  is  lost  that's  saved  alone. 
Not  on  one  favored  forehead  fell 


Of  old  the  fire-tongued  miracle, 
But  flamed  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 
The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
Heart  answers  heart :   in  one  desire 
The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire  ; 
'Where,  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  three,' 
Our  Lord  hath  said,  '  I  there  will  he  ! ' 

"  So  sometimes  comes  to  soul  and  sense 
The  feeling  which  is  evidence 
That  very  near  about  us  lies 
The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 
The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 
Impinges  on  this  world  of  ours. 
The  low  and  dark  horizon  lifts, 
To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts  ; 
The  breath  of  a  diviner  air 
Blows  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer  :  — 
That  all  our  sorrow,  pain,  and  doubt 
A  great  compassion  clasps  about, 
And  law  and  goodness,  love  and  force, 
Are  wedded  fast  beyond  divorce. 
Then  duty  leaves  to  love  its  task, 
The  beggar  Self  forgets  to  ask  ; 
With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands, 
The  passive  soul  in  waiting  stands 
To  feel,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew, 
The  One  true  Life  its  own  renew. 

"So,  to  the  calmly  gathered  thought 

The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught, 

The  mystery  dimly  understood, 

That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good, 

And,  chiefly,  its  divinest  trace 

In  Him  of  Nazareth's  holy  face  ; 

That  to  be  saved  is  only  this,  — 

Salvation  from  our  selfishness, 

From  more  than  elemental  fire, 

The  soul's  unsanetilied  desire, 

From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 

That  warns  us  of  its  (dialing  chain  ; 

That  worship's  deeper  meaning  lies 

In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice, 

Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 

And  posturing  of  penitence, 

But  love's  unforced  obedience  ; 

That  Book  and  Church  and  Day  are  given 

For  man,  not  <  rod,        for  earth,  not  heaven,  — 

The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends, 

Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends  ; 

That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  alar, 

The  king  of  Borne  remoter  star, 

But  llai 1  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 

The  baptism  of  the  I  [oly  Ghosl  ; 

Heart  answers  heart   :    in  one  desire 

The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire  ; 

1  Where,  in  my  name,  meel  two  or  three,' 

Our  Lord  hath  said,   '  I  there  will  be  !'" 

Jl  IHN    (.KIP    M.I    Al      Will  ITI1K. 


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A   PRAYER   FOR   LIFE. 

0  Father,  let  me  not  die  young  ! 
Earth's  beaut}'  asks  a  heart  and  tongue 
To  give  true  love  and  praises  to  her  worth  ; 

Her  sins  and  judgment-sufferings  call 
For  fearless  martyrs  to  redeem  thy  Earth 
From  her  disastrous  fall. 
For  though  her  summer  hills  and  vales  might 

seem 
The  fair  creation  of  a  poet's  dream,  — ■ 

Ay,  of  the  Highest  Poet, 
Whose  wordless  rhythms  are  chanted  by  the 
gyres 
Of  constellate  star-choirs, 
That  with  deep  melody  flow  and  overflow  it,  — 
The  sweet  Earth,  —  very  sweet,  despite 
The  rank  grave-smell  forever  drifting  in 
Among  the  odors  from  her  censers  white 
Of  wave-swung  lilies  and  of  wind-swungroses, — 
The  Earth  sad-sweet  is  deeply  attaint  with  sin  ! 
The  pure  air,  whieh  encloses 
Her  and  her  starry  kin, 
Still  shudders  with  the  unspent  palpitating 
Of  a  great  Curse,  that  to  its  utmost  shore 
Thrills  with  a  deadly  shiver 
Which  has  not  ceased  to  quiver 
Down  all  the  ages,  nathless  the  strong  beating 

Of  Angel-wiugs,  and  the  defiant  roar 
Of  Earth's  Titanic  thunders. 

Fair  and  sad, 
In  sin  and  beauty,  our  beloved  Earth 
Has  need  of  all  her  sons  to  make  her  glad  ; 
Has  need  of  martyrs  to  refire  the  hearth 
Of  her  quenched  altars,  —  of  heroic  men 
With  Freedom's  sword,  or  Truth's  supernal  pen, 
To  shape  the  worn-out  mould  of  nobleness  again. 
And  she  has  need  of  Poets  who  can  string 
Their  harps  with  steel  to  catch  the  lightning's 

fire, 
And  pour  her  thunders  from  the  clanging  wire, 
To  cheer  the  hero,  mingling  with  his  cheer, 
Arouse  the  laggard  in  the  battle's  rear, 
Daunt  the  stern  wicked,  and  from  discord  wring 
Prevailing  harmony,  while  the  humblest  soul 
Who  keeps  the  tune  the  warder  angels  sing 
In  golden  choirs  above, 
And  only  wears,  for  crown  and  aureole, 
The  glow-worm  light  of  lowliest  human 
love, 
Shall   fill   with  low,  sweet  undertones  the 

chasms 
Of  silence,    'twixt   the   booming   thunder- 
spasms. 
And  Earth  has  need  of  Prophets  fiery-lipped 
And  deep-souled,  to  announce  the  glorious 
dooms 


Writ  on  the  silent  heavens  in  starry  script, 
And  flashing  fitfully  from  her   shuddering 
tombs,  — 

Commissioned  Angels  of  the  new-born  Faith, 
To  teach  the  immortality  of  Good, 

The  soul's  God-likeness,  Sin's  coeval  death, 
And  Man's  indissoluble  Brotherhood. 

Yet  never  an  age,  when  God  has  need  of  him, 
Shall   want  its  Man,   predestined  by  that 

need, 
To  pour  his  life  in  fiery  word  or  deed,  — 
The  strong  Archangel  of  the  Elohim  ! 

Earth's  hollow  want  is  prophet  of  his  com- 
ing : 
In  the  low  murmur  of  her  famished  cry, 
And  heavy  sobs  breathed  up  despairingly, 

Ye  hear  the  near  invisible  humming 
Of  his  wide  wings  that  fan  the  lurid  sky 
Into  cool  ripples  of  new  life  and  hope, 
While  far  in  its  dissolving  ether  ope 
Deeps  beyond  deeps,  of  sapphire  calm,  to  cheer 
With  Sabbath  gleams  the  troubled  Now  and 
Here. 

Father  !  thy  will  be  done, 
Holy  and  righteous  One  ! 
Though  the  reluctant  years 
May  never  crown  my  throbbing  brows  with 

white, 
Nor  round  my  shoulders  turn  the  golden  light 
Of  my  thick  locks  to  wisdom's  royal  ermine  : 
Yet  by  the  solitary  tears, 
Deeper  than  joy  or  sorrow,  — by  the  thrill, 
Higher  than  hope  or  terror,  whose  quick  germ  en, 

In  those  hot  tears  to  sudden  vigor  sprung, 
Sheds,  even  now,  the  fruits  of  graver  age,  — 
By  the  long  wrestle  in  which  inward  ill 
Fell  like  a  trampled  viper  to  the  ground,  — 
By  all  that  lifts  me  o'er  my  outward  peers 
To  that  supernal  stage 
Where   soul   dissolves   the    bonds  by  Nature 
bound,  — 
Fall  when  I  may,  by  pale  disease  unstrung, 
Or  by  the  hand  of  fratricidal  rage, 

I  cannot  now  die  young  ! 

Anonymous. 


THE   GREENWOOD   SHRIFT. 

GEORGE    III.    AND    A  DYING  WOMAN    IN   WINDSOR    FOREST. 

Outstretched  beneath  the  leafy  shade 
Of  Windsor  forest's  deepest  glade, 

A  dying  woman  lay  ; 
Three  little  children  round  her  stood, 
And  there  went  up  from  the  greenwood 

A  woful  wail  that  day. 


tQ- 


S3 


POEMS   OF   KELIGION. 


289 


ft 


"  0  motlier  !  "  was  the  mingled  cry, 
"O  mother,  mother  !  do  not  die, 

And  leave  us  all  alone." 
"  My  blessed  babes  !  "  she  tried  to  say, 
But  the  faint  accents  died  away 

In  a  low  sobbing  moan. 

And  then,  life  straggling  hard  with  death, 
And  fast  and  strong  she  drew  her  breath, 

And  up  she  raised  her  head  ; 
And,  peering  through  the  deep  wood  maze 
"With  a  long,  sharp,  unearthly  gaze, 

"  Will  she  not  come  ?  "  she  said. 

Just  then,  the  parting  boughs  between, 
A  little  maid's  light  form  was  seen, 

All  breathless  with  her  speed  ; 
And,  following  close,  a  man  came  on 
(A  portly  man  to  look  upon), 

Who  led  a  panting  steed. 

"Mother  !"  the  little  maiden  cried, 
Or  e'er  she  reached  the  woman's  side, 

And  kissed  her  clay-cold  cheek,  — 
"I  have  not  idled  in  the  town, 
But  long  went  wandering  up  and  down, 

The  minister  to  seek. 

"  They  told  me  here,  they  told  me  there,  — 
I  think  they  mocked  me  everywhere  ; 

And  when  I  found  his  home, 
And  begged  him  on  my  bended  knee 
To  bring  his  book  and  come  with  me, 

Mother  !  he  would  not  come. 

"I  told  him  how  you  dying  lay, 
And  could  not  go  in  peace  away 

Without  the  minister ; 
I  begged  him,  for  dear  Christ  his  sake, 
But  0,  my  heart  was  fit  to  break,  — 

Mother  !  he  would  not  stir. 

"So,  though  my  tears  were  blinding  me, 
I  ran  back,  fast  as  fast  could  be, 

To  come  again  to  you  ; 
And  here  —  close  by  —  this  squire  I  met, 
Who  asked  (so  mild)  what  made  me  fret ; 

And  when  I  told  him  true,  — 

"  '  I  will  go  with  you,  child,'  he  said, 
'God  sends  me  to  this  dying  bed,'  — 

Mother,  he 's  here,  hard  by." 
While  thus  the  little  maiden  spoke, 
The  man,  his  bark  against  an  oak, 

Looked  on  with  glistening  eye. 

The  bridle  on  his  neck  hung  free, 
With  quivering  Sank  and  trembling  knee, 
Pressed  close  his  bonny  bay  ; 


A  statelier  man,  a  statelier  steed, 
Never  on  greensward  paced,  I  rede, 
Than  those  stood  there  that  day. 

So,  while  the  little  maiden  spoke, 
The  man,  his  back  against  an  oak, 

Looked  on  with  glistening  eye 
And  folded  arms,  and  in  his  look 
Something  that,  like  a  sermon-book, 

Preached,  —  "All  is  vanity." 

But  when  the  dying  woman's  face 
Turned  toward  him  with  a  wishful  gaze, 

He  stepped  to  where  she  lay  ; 
And,  kneeling  down,  bent  over  her, 
Saying,  ' '  I  am  a  minister, 

My  sister  !  let  us  pray." 

And  well,  withouten  book  or  stole, 
(God's  words  were  printed  on  his  soul ! ) 

Into  the  dying  ear 
He  breathed,  as  't  were  an  angel's  strain, 
The  things  that  unto  life  pertain, 

And  death's  dark  shadows  clear. 

He  spoke  of  sinners'  lost  estate, 
In  Christ  renewed,  regenerate,  — 

Of  God's  most  blest  decree, 
That  not  a  single  soul  should  die 
Who  turns  repentant,  with  the  cry 

"  Be  merciful  to  me." 

He  spoke  of  trouble,  pain,  and  toil, 
Endured  but  for  a  little  while 

In  patience,  faith,  and  love,  — 
Sure,  in  God's  own  good  time,  to  be 
Exchanged  for  an  eternity 

Of  happiness  above. 

Then,  as  the  spirit  ebbed  away, 

He  raised  his  hands  and  eyes  to  pray 

That  peaceful  it  might  pass  ; 
And  then  —  the  orphans'  sobs  alone 
Were  heard,  and  they  knelt,  every  one, 

Close  round  on  the  green  grass. 

Such  was  the  sight  their  wandering  eyes 
Beheld,  in  heart-struck,  mute  surprise, 

Who  reined  their  coursers  back, 
Just  as  they  found  the  long  astray, 
Who,  in  the  heat  of  chase  that  day, 

Had  wandered  from  their  track. 

But  each  man  reined  his  pawing  steed, 
And  lighted  down,  as  if  agreed, 
In  silence  at  his  side  ; 

And  there,  uncovered  all,  they  stood,  — 
It  was  a  wholesome  sight  ami  e^ood 
That  day  for  mortal  pride. 


290 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


For  of  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Was  that  deep-hushed,  bareheaded  band ; 

And,  central  in  the  ring, 
By  that  dead  pauper  on  the  ground, 
Her  ragged  orphans  clinging  round, 

Knelt  their  anointed  king. 

ROBERT  and  CAROLINE  SOUTHEY. 


ABDIEL. 


FROM        PARADISE    LOST. 


....  The  seraph  Abdiel,  faithful  found 
Among  the  faithless,  faithful  only  he  ; 
Among  innumerable  false,  unmoved, 
Unshaken,  unseduced,  unterriiied, 
His  loyalty  he  kept,  his  love,  his  zeal ; 
Nor  number,  nor  example  with  him  wrought 
To  swerve  from  truth,  orchangehisconstant  mind, 
Though  single.  From  amidst  them  forth  he  passed, 
Long  way  through  hostile  scorn,  which  he  sus- 
tained 
Superior,  nor  of  violence  feared  aught ; 
And  with  retorted  scorn  his  back  he  turned 

On  those  proud  towers  to  swift  destruction  doomed. 

Milton. 


THE   REAPER'S   DREAM. 

The  road  was  lone  ;  the  grass  was  dank 

"With  night-dews  on  the  briery  bank 

"Whereon  a  weary  reaper  sank. 

His  garb  was  old  ;  his  visage  tanned  ; 

The  rusty  sickle  in  his  hand 

Could  find  no  work  in  all  the  land. 

He  saw  the  evening's  chilly  star 

Above  his  native  vale  afar ; 

A  moment  on  the  horizon's  bar 

It  hung,  then  sank,  as  with  a  sigh  ; 

And  there  the  crescent  moon  went  by, 

An  empty  sickle  down  the  sky. 

To  soothe  his  pain,  Sleep's  tender  palm 
Laid  on  his  brow  its  touch  of  balm  ; 
His  brain  received  the  slumberous  calm  ; 
And  soon  that  angel  without  name, 
Her  robe  a  dream,  her  face  the  same, 
The  giver  of  sweet  visions  came. 

She  touched  his  eyes  ;  no  longer  sealed, 
They  saw  a  troop  of  reapers  wield 
Their  swift  blades  in  a  ripened  field. 
At  each  thrust  of  their  snowy  sleeves 
A  thrill  ran  through  the  future  sheaves 
Rustling  like  rain  on  forest  leaves. 


They  were  not  brawny  men  who  bowed, 
With  harvest-voices  rough  and  loud, 
But  spirits,  moving  as  a  cloud. 
Like  little  lightnings  in  their  hold, 
The  silver  sickles  manifold 
Slid  musically  through  the  gold. 

0,  bid  the  morning  stars  combine 

To  match  the  chorus  clear  and  fine, 

That  rippled  lightly  down  the  line,  — 

A  cadence  of  celestial  rhyme, 

The  language  of  that  cloudless  clime, 

To  which  their  shining  hands  kept  time  ! 

Behind  them  lay  the  gleaming  rows, 
Like  those  long  clouds  the  sunset  shows 
On  amber  meadows  of  repose  ; 
But,  like  a  wind,  the  binders  bright 
Soon  followed  in  their  mirthful  might, 
And  swept  them  into  sheaves  of  light. 

Doubling  the  splendor  of  the  plain, 
There  rolled  the  great  celestial  wain, 
To  gather  in  the  fallen  grain. 
Its  frame  was  built  of  golden  bars  ; 
Its  glowing  wheels  were  lit  with  stars  ; 
The  royal  Harvest's  car  of  cars. 

The  snowy  yoke  that  drew  the  load, 
On  gleaming  hoofs  of  silver  trode  ; 
And  music  was  its  only  goad. 
To  no  command  of  word  or  beck 
It  moved,  and  felt  no  other  check 
Than  one  white  arm  laid  on  the  neck,  — 

The  neck,  whose  light  was  overwound 
With  bells  of  lilies,  ringing  round 
Their  odors  till  the  air  was  drowned  : 
The  starry  foreheads  meekly  borne, 
With  garlands  looped  from  horn  to  horn, 
Shone  like  the  many-colored  morn. 

The  field  was  cleared.     Home  went  the  bands, 
Like  children,  linking  happy  hands, 
While  singing  through  their  father's  lands  ; 
Or,  arms  about  each  other  thrown, 
With  amber  tresses  backward  blown, 
They  moved  as  they  were  music's  own. 

The  vision  brightening  more  and  more, 

He  saw  the  garner's  glowing  door, 

And  sheaves,  like  sunshine,  strew  the  floor,  — 

The  floor  was  jasper,  —  golden  flails, 

Swift-sailing  as  a  whirlwind  sails, 

Throbbed  mellow  music  down  the  vales. 

He  saw  the  mansion,  —  all  repose, — 

Great  corridors  and  porticos, 

Propped  with  the  columns,  shining  rows  ; 


-ff 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


291 


■ft 


And  these  —  for  beauty  was  the  rule  — 
The  polished  pavements,  hard  and  cool, 
Redoubled,  Like  a  crystal  pool. 

And  there  the  odorous  feast  was  spread  ; 
The  fruity  fragrance  widely  shed 
Seemed  to  the  floating  music  wed. 
Seven  angels,  like  the  Pleiad  seven, 
Their  lips  to  silver  clarions  given, 
Blew  welcome  round  the  walls  of  heaven. 

In  skyey  garments,  silky  thin, 
The  glad  retainers  tloated  in 
A  thousand  forms,  and  yet  no  din  : 
And  from  the  visage  of  the  Lord, 
Like  splendor  from  the  Orient  poured, 
A  smile  illumined  all  the  board. 

Far  flew  the  music's  circling  sound  ; 
Then  floated  back,  with  soft  rebound, 
To  join,  not  mar,  the  converse  round,  — 
Sweet  notes,  that,  melting,  still  increased, 
Such  as  ne'er  cheered  the  bridal  feast 
Of  king  in  the  enchanted  East. 

Did  any  great  door  ope  or  close, 
It  seemed  the  birth-time  of  repose, 
The  faint  sound  died  where  it  arose  ; 
And  they  who  passed  from  door  to  door, 
Their  soft  feet  on  the  polished  floor 
Met  their  soft  shadows,  —  nothing  more. 

Then  once  again  the  groups  were  drawn 
Through  corridors,  or  down  the  lawn, 
"Which  bloomed  in  beauty  like  a  dawn. 
"Where  countless  fountains  leapt  alway, 
Veiling  their  silver  heights  in  spray, 
The  chora]  people  held  their  way. 

There,  midst  the  brightest,  brightly  shone 
Dear  forms  he  loved  in  years  agone,  — 
The  earliest  loved,  —  the  earliest  flown. 
He  heard  a  mother's  sainted  tongue, 
A  sister's  voice,  who  vanished  young, 
While  one  still  dearer  sweetly  sung  ! 

No  further  might  the  scene  unfold  ; 
The  gazer's  voice  could  not  withhold  ; 
The  very  rapture  made  him  hold  : 
He  cried  aloud,  with  clasped  hands, 
"0  happy  fields  !  O  happy  bands  ! 
Who  reap  the  never-failing  lands. 

"0  master  of  these  broad  estates, 
Behold,  before  your  very  gates 

A  worn  and  wanting  laborer  waits  ! 
l.et  me  hut  toil  amid  your  grain, 
Or  lx-  a  gleaner  on  the  plain, 
So  I  may  leave  these  fields  of  pain  ! 


"A  gleaner,  I  will  follow  far, 
With  never  look  or  word  to  mar, 
Behind  the  Harvest's  yellow  car  ; 
All  day  my  hand  shall  constant  be, 
And  every  happy  eve  shall  see 
The  precious  burden  borne  to  thee  !  " 

At  morn  some  reapers  neared  the  place, 
Strong  men,  whose  feet  recoiled  apace  ; 
Then  gathering  round  the  upturned  face, 
They  saw  the  lines  of  pain  and  care, 
Yet  read  in  the  expression  there 
The  look  as  of  an  answered  prayer. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


THE   RELIGION   OF   HTJDIBRAS. 

....  He  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  church  militant ; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun  ; 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery, 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks  ; 
Call  tire,  and  sword,  and  desolation 
A  godly,  thorough  Reformation, 
"Which  always  must  be  earned  on 
And  still  be  doing,  never  done  ; 
As  if  religion  were  intended 
For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended. 
A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 
In  odd  perverse  antipathies  ; 
In  falling  out  with  that  or  this, 
And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss  ; 
More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic, 
Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sick  ; 
That  with  more  care  keep  holiday 
The  wrong,  than  others  the  right  way  ; 
Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to, 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to  ; 
Still  so  perverse  and  opposite, 
As  if  they  worshipped  God  for  spite  ; 
The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 
One  way,  and  long  another  for. 

SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


THE   COTTER'S   SATURDAY   NIGHT. 

INSCRinF.D   TO    R.    AIKEN,    ESQ. 

"  Let  not  ambiti  n  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  Joys  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  .,  disdainful  smile. 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor."  — GRAY. 


My  loved,  my  honored,  much-respected  friend, 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  : 


T? 


292 


POEMS   OF   RELIGION, 


a 


With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise. 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene  ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways  ; 
"What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 
Ah  !    though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier 
there,  I  ween. 

II. 
November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 

The  shortening  winter- day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 

The  blackeningtrainso' craws  to  their  repose; 
The  toilworn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,  — 
Collectshisspades,  his  mattocks,  andhishoes,  — 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hame- 
ward  bend. 

in. 
At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 
Th'    expectant  wee  things,   toddlin',    stacher 
through 
Tomeet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin' noise  an' glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearthstane,   his  thriftie   wifie's 
smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 
And  makeshim  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil. 

IV. 

Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out  arnang  the  farmers  roun'  ; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  town  ; 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  bra'  new  gown, 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

V. 
Wi'  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers : 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years  ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 

Gars  auld  claeslook  amaist  as  weel  's  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

VI. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey  ; 

And  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 
And  ne'er,  though  out  o' sight,  to  jaukorplay ; 


"An*  0,  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might ; 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright  !" 

VII. 

But,  hark  !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek  ; 
Wi'    heart-struck   anxious   care   incpiires   his 
name, 
While  Jenny  hafnins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it 'snae  wild,  worth- 
less rake. 

VIII. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 

Astrappin'  youth  ;  hetaksthe  mother's  e'e  ; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit 's  no  ill  ta'en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'ertlows  wi'  joy, 
But  blate  and  lathefu',  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae 
grave  ; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  baim  's  respected  like 
the  lave. 

IX. 

0  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 
0  heartfelt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 

1  've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  :  — 
If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'T  is  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  even- 
ing gale. 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  ait, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  hisperjuredarts  !  dissembling  smooth  ! 

Are  honor,"  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'ertheir  child, 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distrac- 
tion wild  ? 

XI. 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food  ; 


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TOEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


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The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood  ; 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  herweel-hainedkebbuck  fell, 
An'  aft  he 's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid  ; 
The  frugal  wine,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  't  was  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the 
bell. 

XII. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi*  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha' -Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  ; 
His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare  : 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  !  "  he  says  with  solemn 


air. 


XIII. 


They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim: 
Perhaps  "  Dundee's  "  wild- warbling  measures 
rise, 

Orplaintive  "Martyrs,"  worthy  of  the  name  ; 
Or  noble  "  Elgin"  beets  the  heavenward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 

The  tickled  eai's  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise  ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

XIV. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page,  ■ — 

How  Abram  was -the  friend  of  God  on  high  ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny, 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire  ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry  ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme,  — 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head  : 
How  his  fust  followers  ami  servants  sped; 

The  precepts 8age  they  wrote  to  many  a  land  ; 
How  lie,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by 
I  leaven's  command. 

XVI. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  to  heaven's  eternal  King, 
Thesaint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  : 


Hope  "springs exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  ; 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

XVII. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 

Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the 
soul; 
And  in  his  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

XVIII. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way  ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  heaven  the  warm  request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But,  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  pre- 
side. 

XIX. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur 
springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad; 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

"Anhonestman'sthe  noblest  work  of  God!" 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  : 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  — a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  ! 

xx. 

0  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent, 
Lone;  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content  ! 
And ,  O,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  lie  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved 
isle. 


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POEMS   OF   RELIGION. 


ft 


XXI. 

0  Thou  !  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide, 

That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart  ; 
"Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 
0,  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot  bard 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


EVENING   HYMN. 

Glory  to  thee,  my  God,  this  night, 
For  all  the  blessings  of  the  light ; 
Keep  me,  0,  keep  me,  King  of  kings, 
Beneath  thy  own  almighty  wings  ! 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  for  thy  dear  Son, 
The  ill  that  1  this  day  have  done  ; 
That  with  the  world,  myself,  and  thee 
I,  ere  I  sleep,  at  peace  may  be. 

Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed  ; 
To  die,  that  this  vile  body  may 
Rise  glorious  at  the  judgment-day. 


0,  may  my  soul  on  thee  repose, 
And  may  sweet  sleep  mine  eyelids  close,  — 
Sleep,  that  may  me  more  vigorous  make 
To  serve  my  God  when  I  awake  ! 

When  in  the  night  I  sleepless  lie, 
My  soul  with  heavenly  thoughts  supply ; 
Let  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 
No  powers  of  darkness  me  molest. 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  ; 
Praise  him,  all  creatures  here  below  ; 
Praise  him  above,  ye  heavenly  host ; 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

KEN. 


FROM  ALL  THAT  DWELL  — 

PSALM     CXVII. 
I 

From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 
Let  the  Creator's  praise  arise  ; 
Let  the  Redeemer's  name  be  sung 
Through  every  land,  by  every  tongue. 

Eternal  are  thy  mercies,  Lord, 

Eternal  truth  attends  thy  word  ; 

Thy  praise  shall  sound  from  shore  to  shore, 

Till  suns  shall  rise  and  set  no  more. 

Isaac  Watts. 


^-B3 


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POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


WORLDLINESS. 

The  "World  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  ourpowers ; 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours  ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  hoon  ! 

This*  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers, 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 

It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !  I  'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn,  — 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

William  Wordsworth. 


DAYBREAK. 

A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "0  mists,  make  room  for  me  !" 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "Awake  !  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "  0  bin],  awake  and  sing  !  " 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "0  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow  ;  the  day  is  near  ! " 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coining  morn  !  " 

Ii  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 

"Awake,  0  bell  !   proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  tlie  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "Not  yet  !  in  quiet  lie." 

HBNRY  wadsworth  Longfellow. 


INVOCATION   TO  LIGHT. 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven  first-born  ! 
Or  of  the  Eternal  coeternal  beam 
May  I  express  thee  unblamed  ?  since  God  is  light, 
And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee, 
Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate. 
Or  hear'st  thou  rather  pure  ethereal  stream, 
Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  ?  before  the  sim, 
Before  the  heavens,  thou  wert,  and  at  the  voice 
Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest 
The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 
Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing, 
Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detained 
In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in  my  flight 
Through  utterand  through  middle  darkness  borne, 
With  other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre, 
I  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night, 
Taught  by  the  heavenly  Muse  to  venture  down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  reascend, 
Though  hard  and  rare  :  thee  I  revisit  safe, 
And  feel  thy  sovereign  vital  lamp  ;  but  thou 
Revisitest  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn  ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched  their  orbs, 
Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.     Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt 
Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song  ;  but  chief 
Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath, 
That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 
Nightly  I  visit  :  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two  equalled  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  renown, 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Majonidcs, 
And  Tiresias  and  Phineus,  prophets  old  : 
Then  feed  on  thoughts  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers  ;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.     Tims  with  the  year 
Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 


A 


a- 


298 


TOEMS   OF   NATURE. 


Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  ; 

But  cloud,  instead,  and  ever-during  dark, 

Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 

Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 

Presented  with  a  universal  blank 

Of  nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 

And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 

So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 

Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 

Irradiate  ;  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 

Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 

Milton. 


PACK   CLOUDS   AWAY. 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow  ; 

Sweet  air,  blow  soft ;  mount,  lark,  aloft, 
To  give  my  love  good  morrow. 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 
Notes  from  the  lark  I  '11  borrow  : 

Bird,  prune  thy  wing  ;  nightingale,  sing, 
To  give  my  love  good  morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good  morrow, 
Notes  from  them  all  I  '11  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good  morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 
Yon  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves, 

Sing  my  fair  love  good  morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good  morrow, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 

THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


MORNING. 


FROM 


THE   MINSTREL. 


But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain 

side  ; 
The  lowing  herd  ;  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 
The  pipe  ot  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley  ;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above  ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean  tide  ; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark  ; 
Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid 


The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield  ;  and, 

hark  ! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon 

rings  ; 
Through   rustling   corn   the   hare   astonished 

springs  ; 

Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the  drowsy  hour  ; 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings  ; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower, 

And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 

James  Beattie. 


THE   SABBATH   MORNING. 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn, 
That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ! 
A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne  ; 
A  graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill ; 
And  echo  answers  softer  from  the  hill ; 
And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn  : 
The  skylark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 
Hail,  light  serene  !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  ! 
The  rooks  float  silent  by  in  airy  drove  ; 
The  sun  a  placid  yellow  lustre  throws  ; 
The  gales  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove 
Have  hushed  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose  ; 
The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move,  — - 
So  smiled  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose  ! 

Dr.  John  Levden. 


REVE   DU   MIDI. 

When  o'er  the  mountain  steeps 
The  hazy  noontide  creeps, 
And  the  shrill  cricket  sleeps 
Under  the  grass  ; 
When  soft  the  shadows  lie, 
And  clouds  sail  o'er  the  sky, 
And  the  idle  winds  go  by, 
With  the  heavy  scent  of  blossoms  as  they  pass,  — 

Then,  when  the  silent  stream 
Lapses  as  in  a  dream, 
And  the  water-lilies  gleam 
Up  to  the  sun  ; 

When  the  hot  and  burdened  day 
Rests  on  its  downward  way, 
When  the  moth  forgets  to  play, 
And  the  plodding  ant  may  dream  her  work  is 
done,  — 

Then,  from  the  noise  of  war 
And  the  din  of  earth  afar, 
Like  some  forgotten  star 
Dropt  from  the  sky,  — 
The  sounds  of  love  and  fear, 


-cr 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


299 


a 


All  voices  sad  and  clear, 
Banished  to  silence  drear,  — 
The  willing  thrall  of  trances  sweet  I  lie. 

Some  melancholy  gale 
Breathes  its  mysterious  tale, 
Till  the  rose's  lips  grow  pale 
With  her  sighs  ; 
And  o'er  my  thoughts  are  cast 
Tints  of  the  vanished  past, 
Glories  that  faded  fast, 
Renewed  to  splendor  in  my  dreaming  eyes. 

As  poised  on  vibrant  wings, 

Where  its  sweet  treasure  swings, 

The  honey-lover  clings 

To  the  red  flowers,  — ■ 

So,  lost  in  vivid  light, 

So,  rapt  from  day  and  night, 

I  linger  in  delight, 

Enraptured  o'er  the  vision-freighted  hours. 

Rose  Terry. 


NOONTIDE. 

Bexeath  a  shivering  canopy  reclined, 

Of  aspen-leaves  that  wave  without  a  wind, 

I  love  to  lie,  when  lulling  breezes  stir 

The  spiry  cones  that  tremble  on  the  fir ; 

Or  wander  mid  the  dark -green  fields  of  broom, 

When  peers  in  scattered  tufts  the  yellow  bloom  ; 

Or  trace  the  path  with  tangling  furze  o'errun, 

When  bursting  seed-bells  crackle  in  the  sun, 

And  pittering  grasshoppers,  confus'dly  shrill, 

Tipe  giddily  along  the  glowing  hill  : 

Sweet  grasshopper,  who  lov'st  at  noon  to  lie 

Serenely  in  the  green-ribbed  clover's  eye, 

To  sun  thy  filmy  wings  and  emerald  vest, 

Unseen  thy  form,  and  undisturbed  thy  rest, 

Oft  have  I  listening  mused  the  sultry  day, 

And  wondered  what  thy  chirping  song  might.say, 

When  naught  was  heard  along  the  blossomed  lea, 

To  join  thy  music,  save  the  listless  bee. 

DR.  JOHN  Levden. 


ON    A    BEAUTIFUL   DAY. 

O  UNSEEN  Spirit  !  now  a  calm  divine 

Comes  forth  from  thee,  rejoicing  earth  and  air  ! 

Trees,  hills,  and  houses,  all  distinctly  shine, 
And  thy  great  ocean  Blurabers  everywhere. 

The  mountain  ridge  againsl  the  purple  sky 
Stands  clear  and  strong,  with  darkened  rocks 

and  dells. 
And  cloudless  brightness  opens  wide  and  high 
A  home  aerial,  where  thy  presence  dwells. 


The  chime  of  bells  remote,  the  murmuring  sea, 
The  song  of  birds  in  whispering  copse  and  wood, 

The  distant  voice  of  children's  thoughtless  glee, 
And  maiden's  song,  are  all  one  voice  of  good. 

Amid  the  leaves'  green  mass  a  sunny  play 

Of  flash  and  shadow  stirs  like  inward  life  ; 

The  ship's  white  sail  glides  onward  far  away, 

Unhaunted  by  a  dream  of  storm  or  strife. 

John  Sterling. 


THE  MIDGES  DANCE  ABOON  THE  BURN. 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  bum  ; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa'  ; 
The  pairtricks  down  the  rushy  holm 

Set  up  their  e'ening  ca'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's  sang 

Rings  through  the  briery  shaw, 
While,  flitting  gay,  the  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 

Beneath  the  golden  gloamin'  sky 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay  ; 
The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains 

To  charm  the  lingering  day  ; 
While  weary  yeldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn, 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell ; 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry, 
The  simple  joys  that  nature  yields 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 

Robert  Tannahill. 


THE  EVENING  WIND. 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice  i  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day  ! 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow  ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 
Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high 
their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  seal 

Nor  I  alone,  — a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight  ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night  ; 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


And  languishing  to  hear  thy  welcome  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland,  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade  ;  go  forth,  — 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest ; 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars ;  and  rouse 
The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoning,  from  the  innumerable  boughs, 
The  strange  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast. 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 
And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the 
grass. 

Stoop  o'er  the  place  of  graves,  and  softly  sway 
The  sighing  herbage  by  the  gleaming  stone 

That  they  who  near  the  churchyard  willows  stray, 
And  listen  in  the  deepening  gloom,  alone, 

May  think  of  gentle  souls  that  passed  away, 
Like  thy  pure  breath,  into  the  vast  unknown, 

Sent  forth  from  heaven  among  the  sons  of  men, 

And  gone  into  the  boundless  heaven  again. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee  ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more 
deep  ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go,  —  but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

"With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more. 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea  air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  homesick  mariner  of  the  shore  ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE   EVENING   STAR. 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  laborer  free  ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  't  is  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
"Whilst  the  landscape's  odors  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs,  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 


Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse  ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


CAPE-COTTAGE   AT   SUNSET. 

We  stood  upon  the  ragged  rocks, 

When  the  long  day  was  nearly  done  ; 

The  waves  had  ceased  their  sullen  shocks, 
And  lapped  our  feet  with  murmuring  tone, 

And  o'er  the  bay  in  streaming  locks 
Blew  the  red  tresses  of  the  sun. 

Along  the  west  the  golden  bars 

Still  to  a  deeper  glory  grew  ; 
Above  our  heads  the  faint,  few  stars 

Looked  out  from  the  unfathomed  blue ; 
And  the  fair  city's  clamorous  jars 

Seemed  melted  in  that  evening  hue. 

0  sunset  sky  !  0  purple  tide  ! 

0  friends  to  friends  that  closer  pressed  ! 
Those  glories  have  in  darkness  died, 
And  ye  have  left  my  longing  breast. 

1  could  not  keep  you  by  my  side, 
Nor  fix  that  radiance  in  the  west. 

W.  B.  GLAZIER. 


SUNSET. 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore, 

And  thou  hast  lingered  there 

Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 
Seemed  resting  on  the  burnished  wave, 

Thou  must  have  marked  the  lines 
Of  purple  gold,  that  motionless 

Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere  : 
Thou  must  have  marked  the  billowy  clouds, 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy, 

Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 

Crowned  with  a  diamond  wreath. 

And  yet  there  is  a  moment, 

When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peeps  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge, 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold, 
Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 
Like  islands  on  a  dark-blue  sea  ; 
Then  has  thy  fancy  soared  above  the  earth, 

And  furled  its  wearied  wing 

Within  the  Fairy's  fane. 


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Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
Gleaming  in  yon  flood  of  light, 

Nor  the  feathery  curtains 
Stretching  o'er  the  sun's  bright  couch, 
Nor  the  burnished  ocean's  waves 

Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 
So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 
As  Mab's  ethereal  palace  could  afford. 
Yet  likest  evening's  vault,  that  fairy  Hall ! 
Heaven,  low  resting  on  the  wave,  it  spread 
Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome, 
Its  fertile  golden  islands 
Floating  on  a  silver  sea  ; 
Whilst  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 
Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness, 
And  pearly  battlements  around 
Looked  o'er  the  immense  of  heaven. 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLEY. 


EVENING. 


FROM        DON    JUAN. 


Ave  Maria  !  o'er  the  earth  and  sea, 

That  heavenliest  hour  of  heaven  is  worthiest  thee  ! 

Ave  Maria  !  blessed  be  the  hour, 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower 

Or  the  faint  dying  day  hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And  ye1   the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred  with 
player. 

Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  hour  of  prayer  ! 

Ave  Maria  !  't  is  the  hour  of  love  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  0  that  face  so  fair  ! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty 
dove,  — 
What   though   'tis   but   a  pictured   image?  — 

strike,  — 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  —  't  is  too  like. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight  !  in  the  solitude 
I  >i  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 
Booted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flowed  o'er 

To  where  the  last.  Csesarean  fortress  stood, 
Evergreen  forest;  which  Boccaccio's  lore 

And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee  ! 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 
Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine, 


And  vesper  bells  that  rose  the  boughs  along  ; 
The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng 
Which  learned  from  this  example  not  to  fly 
From  a  true  lover,  —  shadowed  my  mind's  eye. 

0  Hesperus  !  thou  bringest  all  good  things,  — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabored  steer  ; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 

Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 

Soft  hour  !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the 
heart 

Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart ; 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way, 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay  : 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns  ? 
Ah  !  surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns. 

BYRON. 


EVENING    IN    PARADISE. 

Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad  ; 
Silence  accompanied  ;  for  beast  and  bird, 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests, 
AVere  slunk,  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale  ; 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung. 
Silence  was  pleased  :  now  glowed  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires  ;  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  queen,  unveiled  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 

When  Adam  thus  to  Eve  :   "Fair  consort,  the 
hour 
Of  night,  and  all  things  now  retired  to  rest, 
Mind  us  of  like  repose,  since  God  hath  set 
Labor  and  rest,  as  day  and  night,  to  men 
Successive  ;  and  the  timely  dew  of  sleep, 
Now  falling  with  soft  slumberous  weight,  inclines 
Our  eyelids.      Other  creatures  all  day  long 
l!ove  idle,  unemployed,  and  less  need  rest; 
Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  body  or  mind 
Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity, 
And  the  regard  of  Heaven  on  all  his  ways; 
While  other  animals  unactive  range, 
And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 

To-morrow,  ere  fresh  morning  streak  il ast 

With  first  approach  of  light,  we  musl  be  risen, 

And  at  our  pleasant  labor,  to  reform 
Yon  flowery  arbors,  yonder  alleys  green, 


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Our  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown, 
That  moek  our  scant  manuring,  and  require 
More  hands  than  ours  to  lop  their  wanton  growth. 
Those  blossoms  also,  and  those  dropping  gums, 
That  lie  bestrewn,  unsightly  and  unsmooth, 
Ask  riddance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  with  ease  ; 
Meanwhile,  as  Nature  wills,  night  bids  us  rest." 

To  whom  thus  Eve  with  perfect  beauty  adorned  : 
"  My  author  and  disposer,  what  thou  bidd'st 
Unargued  I  obey  ;  so  God  ordains  ; 
God  is  thy  law,  thou  mine  ;  to  know  no  more 
Is  woman's  happiest  knowledge  and  her  praise. 
With  thee  conversing  I  forget  all  time  ; 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet, 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds  ;  pleasant  the  sun, 
When  hrst  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flower, 
Glistering  with  dew  ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  showers  ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild  ;  then  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  train  : 
But  neither  breath  of  morn,  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds  ;  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land  ;  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 
Glistering  with  dew  ;  nor  fragrance  after  showers, 
Nor  grateful  evening  mild  ;  nor  silent  night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon, 
Or  glittering  starlight,  without  thee  is  sweet." 

Thus  talking,  hand  in  hand  alone  they  passed 
On  to  their  blissful  bower. 

MILTON. 


TO  NIGHT. 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — 

Swift  be  thy  flight  ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ; 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wrearied  out ; 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand,  — 

Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee  ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  her  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  lor  thee  ! 


Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"  Wouldstthou  me?" 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  lilmy-eyed, 

Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
"  Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? "  —  And  I  replied, 
"No,  not  thee  !" 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon,  — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled  ; 
Of  neither  would  1  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night,  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon  ! 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


-♦ 


NIGHT. 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee,  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he.  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame,  — 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 
Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus,  with  the  host  of  heaven,  came, 
And  lo  !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  con- 
cealed 
Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun  !  or  who  could  find, 
Whilst  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind ! 
Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? 
If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 

BLANCO  WHITE. 


NIGHT. 


How  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest  sigh 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear 
Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 
That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon 

vault, 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright, 
Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur 

rolls, 
Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  has  spread 
To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills, 
Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow  ; 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend, 
So  stainless  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 
Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam  ;  yon  castle  steep, 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  timeworn  tower 
So  idly  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace  —  all  form  a  scene 
Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 


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Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness  ; 
Where  silence  undisturbed  might  watch  alone, 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

The  orb  of  day 
In  soxithern  climes  o'er  ocean's  waveless  field 
Sinks  sweetly  smiling  :  not  the  faintest  breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruffled  deep  ;  the  clouds  of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day  ; 
And  vesper's  image  on  the  western  main 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  conies  : 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepening  mass, 
Rolls  o'er  the  blackened  waters  ;  the  deep  roar 
Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully  ; 
Tempest  unfolds  its  pinion  o'er  the  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge  ;  the  pitiless  fiend, 
With  all  his  windsand lightnings,  trackshis  prey ; 
The  torn  deep  yawns,  —  the  vessel  finds  a  grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gulf. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


NIGHT. 


But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men, 

To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 

And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen, 

With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless ; 

Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress  ! 

None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 

If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 

Of  all  that  flattered,  followed,  sought,  and  sued ; 

This  is  to  be  alone  ;  this,  this  is  solitude  ! 

Byron. 


FROM        CHILDE    HAROLD. 

'T  IS  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end  : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal, 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a 

friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
When  Youth itselfsurvives young  Loveandjoy ? 
Alas  !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy  ! 
Ah  !  happy  years  !  once  more  who  would  not  be 
a  boy  ? 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere, 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  an'  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possessed 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear; 
A  flashing  pang  !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  theheavyheart  divest. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse,  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion 

dwell, 
And  mortal  fool  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold  ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean, — 
This  is  not  solitude  ;  't  is  but  to  hold 
Converse    with    Nature's  charms,  and  view  her 

stores  unrolled. 


NIGHT. 


Night  is  the  time  for  rest  : 
How  sweet,  when  labors  close, 

To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 
The  curtain  of  repose, 

Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay  the  head 

Down  on  our  own  delightful  bed  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams  : 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 
When  truth  that  is,  and  truth  that  seems, 

Mix  in  fantastic  strife  ; 
Ah  !  visions,  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are  ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil : 

To  plough  the  classic  field, 
Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 
Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught, 
That  poets  sang,  and  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep  : 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  Memory,  where  sleep 

The  joys  of  other  years  ; 
Hopes,  that  were  Angels  at  their  birth, 
But  died  when  young,  like  things  of  earth- 
Night  is  the  time  to  watch  : 

O'er  ocean's  dark  expanse, 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 

The  full  moon's  earliest  glance, 
That  brings  into  the  homesick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care  : 
Brooding  on  boms  misspent, 

To  see  the  8] tie  of  I'esjiair 

Come  to  our  lonely  tent  ; 
Like  Brutus,  midst  his  slumbering  host, 

Summoned  to  die  liy  Caesar's  ghost. 

Night  is  the  time  to  think  : 

When,  from  the  eye.  the  soul 
Takes  flighl  ;  and  on  the  utmost  brink 

Of  yonder  -tarry  pole 


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304 


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-a 


Discerns  beyond  the  abyss  of  night 
The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray  : 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 
To  desert  mountains  far  away  ; 

So  will  his  follower  do, 
Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod, 
And  commune  there  alone  with  God. 

Night  is  the  time  for  Death  : 

When  all  around  is  peace, 
Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath, 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease, 

Think  of  heaven's  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 

To  parting  friends  ;  —  such  death  be  mine. 

James  Montgomery. 


HYMN   TO   THE   NIGHT. 

"ACTTTCUnT),  TpiAAlOTOS. 

I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 

From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  till  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

0  holy  Night  !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace  !    Peace  !    Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer ! 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night  ! 

Henry  wadsworth  Longfellow. 


What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dashed  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow  ; 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drowned  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea  ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood,  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land  ;  and  in  my  breast 

Spring  wakens  too  ;  and  my  regret 

Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


SPRING. 


FROM        IN   MEMORIAM. 


Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year,  delaying  long  : 
Thou  doest  expectant  Nature  wrong ; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 


DIE   DOWN,    0   DISMAL    DAY! 

Die  down,  0  dismal  day,  and  let  me  live  ; 
And  come,  blue  deeps,  magnificently  strewn 
With  colored  clouds, — large,  light,  and  fugitive, — 
By  upper  winds  through  pompous  motions  blown. 
Now  it  is  death  in  life,  —  a  vapor  dense 
Creeps  round  my  window,  till  I  cannot  see 
The  far  snow-shining  mountains,  and  the  glens 
Shagging  the  mountain  tops.    0  God  !  make  free 
This  barren  shackled  earth,  so  deadly  cold,  — 
Breathe  gently  forth  thy  spring,  till  winter  flies 
In  rude  amazement,  fearful  and  yet  bold, 
While  she  performs  her  customed  charities  ; 
I  weigh  the  loaded  hours  till  life  is  bare,  — 
0  God,  for  one  clear  day,  asnowdrop,  and  sweet  air ! 

David  gray. 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


305 


■ft 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 
Waiting  for  tlie  May,  — 
Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn-brambles, 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 
Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May,  — 
Longing  to  escape  from  study, 
To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy, 
And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 

To  the  summer's  day. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May,  — 
Sighing  for  their  sure  returning, 
When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, 
Hopes  and  flowers  that,  dead  or  dying, 

All  the  winter  lay. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May,  — 
Throbbing  for  the  seaside  billows, 
Or  the  water-wooing  willows  ; 

Where,  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing, 

Glide  the  streams  away. 
Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing. 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary, 
Waiting  for  the  May  : 
Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings,  — 
Moonlit  evenings,  sunbright  mornings,  — 
Slimmer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 

Life  still  ebbs  away  ; 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May  ! 

Denis  Florence  Mac-Carthy. 


WHEN   THE   HOUNDS   OF   SPRING. 

Wii  in  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 

Fills  the  shadows  ami  windy  places 
With  lisp  of  Leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 

Ami  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 

Is  half  assuaged  for  Itvlns, 

For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces  ; 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 
20 


Come  with  bows  bent   and   with   emptying   of 
quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  a  clamor  of  waters,  and  with  might ; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  0  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet ! 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the 
night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees  and  cling  ? 

0  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring 
to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring  ! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 

As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player  ; 

For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 
And   the  southwest-wind  and  the  west-wind 
sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 
And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins  ; 

The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins  ; 

And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten, 

And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 

And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot, 

The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit  ; 

And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 

And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 

And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid  ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide, 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows  shading  her  eyes  ; 
The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs  ; 
The  wild  vim-  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


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THE  WINTER  BEING  OVER. 

The  winter  being  over, 
In  order  comes  the  spring, 
"Which  doth  green  herbs  discover, 
And  cause  the  birds  to  sing. 
The  night  also  expired, 
Then  conies  the  morning  bright, 
Which  is  so  much  desired 
By  all  that  love  the  light. 

This  may  learn 

Them  that  mourn, 
To  put  their  grief  to  flight : 
The  spring  succeedeth  winter, 
And  day  must  follow  night. 

He  therefore  that  sustaineth 
Affliction  or  distress 
Which  every  member  paineth, 
And  flndeth  no  release,  — ■ 
Let  such  therefore  despair  not, 
But  on  farm  hope  depend, 
Whose  griefs  immortal  are  not, 
And  therefore  must  have  end. 

They  that  faint 

With  complaint 
Therefore  are  to  blame  ; 
They  add  to  their  afflictions, 
And  amplify  the  same. 

For  if  they  could  with  patience 
Awhile  possess  the  mind, 
By  inward  consolations 
They  might  refreshing  find, 
To  sweeten  all  their  crosses 
That  little  time  they  'dure  ; 
So  might  they  gain  by  losses, 
And  sharp  would  sweet  procure. 

But  if  the  mind 

Be  inclined 
To  unquietness, 
That  only  may  be  called 
The  worst  of  all  distress. 

He  that  is  melancholy, 
Detesting  all  delight, 
His  wits  by  sottish  folly 
Are  ruinated  quite. 
Sad  discontent  and  murmurs 
To  him  are  incident  ; 
Were  he  possessed  of  honors, 
He  could  not  be  content. 

Sparks  of  joy 

Fly  away  ; 
Floods  of  care  arise  ; 
And  all  delightful  motion 
In  the  conception  dies. 


But  those  that  are  contented 
However  things  do  fall, 
Much  anguish  is  prevented, 
And  they  soon  freed  from  all. 
They  finish  all  their  labors 
With  much  felicity  ; 
Their  joy  in  trouble  savors 
Of  perfect  piety. 

Cheerfulness 

Doth  express 
A  settled  pious  mind, 
Which  is  not  prone  to  grudging, 
From  murmuring  refined. 


ANN  COLLINS. 


SPRING. 

WRITTEN   WHILE   A    PRISONER    IN   ENGLAND. 

The  Time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by 
Of  wind  and  rain  and  icy  chill, 

And  dons  a  rich  embroidery 

Of  sunlight  poured  on  lake  and  hill. 

No  beast  or  bird  in  earth  or  sky, 

Whose  voice  doth  not  with  gladness  thrill; 
For  Time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by 

Of  wind  and  rain  and  icy  chill. 

River  and  fountain,  brook  and  rill, 
Bespangled  o'er  with  livery  gay 
Of  silver  droplets,  wind  their  way. 
All  in  their  new  apparel  vie, 
For  Time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by. 

CHARLES  OF  ORLEANS. 


RETURN   OF  SPRING. 

[Translation.] 

God  shield  ye,  heralds  of  the  spring, 
Ye  faithful  swallows,  flept  of  wing, 

Houps,  cuckoos,  nightingales, 
Turtles,  and  every  wilder  bird, 
That  make  your  hundred  chirpings  heard 

Through  the  green  woods  and  dales. 

God  shield  ye,  Easter  daisies  all, 
Fair  roses,  buds,  and  blossoms  small, 

And  he  whom  erst  the  gore 
Of  Ajax  and  Narciss  did  print, 
Ye  wild  thyme,  anise,  balm,  and  mint, 

I  welcome  ye  once  more. 

God  shield  ye,  bright  embroidered  train 
Of  butterflies,  that  on  the  plain 

Of  each  sweet  herblet  sip  ; 
And  ye,  new  swarms  of  bees,  that  go 
Where  the  pink  flowers  and  yellow  grow 

To  kiss  them  with  your  lip. 


43— 


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A  hundred  thousand  times  I  call 

A  hearty  welcome  on  ye  all ; 

This  season  how  I  love  — 

This  merry  din  on  every  shore  — 

For  winds  and  storms,  whose  sullen  roar 

Forbade  my  steps  to  rove. 

Pierre  Ronsard  (French). 


MARCH. 

The  cock  is  crowing, 

The  stream  is  flowing, 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun  ; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 

The  cattle  are  grazing, 

Their  heads  never  raising  ; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one  ! 

Like  an  army  defeated 

The  snow  hath  retreated, 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill  ; 

The  plough-boy  is  whooping  —  anon  • 

There 's  joy  on  the  mountains  ; 

There  's  life  in  the  fountains  ; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing  ; 

The  rain  is  over  and  gone  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


■anon 


SONG  OF  SPRING. 

Latjd  the  first  spring  daisies  ; 

Chant  aloud  their  praises  ; 

Send  the  children  up 

To  the  high  hill's  top  ; 

Tax  not  the  strength  of  their  young  hands 

To  increase  your  lands. 

Gather  the  primroses, 

Make  handfuls  into  posies  ; 

Take  them  to  the  little  girls  who  are  at  work  in 

mills  : 
Pluck   the  violets  Line,  — 
All,  pluck  not  a  few  ! 
Knowest  thou  what  good  thoughts  from  Heaven 

the  violet  instils  ? 

Give  the  children  holidays, 

(And  l<-t  these  be  jolly  days,) 

Granl    freedom  to  the  children  in  this  joyous 

spring  ; 
Better  men,  hereafter, 


Shall  we  have,  for  laughter 

Freely  shouted  to  the  woods,  till  all  the  echoes  ring. 

Send  the  children  up 

To  the  high  hill's  top, 

Or  deep  into  the  wood's  recesses, 

To  woo  spring's  caresses. 

See,  the  birds  together, 

In  this  splendid  weather, 

Worship  God  (for  he  is  God  of  birds  as  well  as 
men)  ; 

And  each  feathered  neighbor 

Enters  on  his  labor,  — 

Sparrow,  robin,  redpole,  finch,  the  linnet,  and  the 
wren. 

As  the  year  advances, 

Trees  their  naked  branches 

Clothe,  and  seek  your  pleasure  in  their  green  ap- 
parel. 

Insect  and  wild  beast 

Keep  no  Lent,  but  feast ; 

Spring  breathes  upon  the  earth,  and  their  joy  's 
increased, 

And  the  rejoicing  birds  break  forth  in  one  loud 
carol. 

Ah,  come  and  woo  the  spring  ; 

List  to  the  birds  that  sing  ; 

Pluck  the  primroses  ;  pluck  the  violets  ; 

Pluck  tjie  daisies, 

Sing  their  praises  ; 

Friendship  with  the  flowers  some  noble  thought 

begets. 
Come  forth  and  gather  these  sweet  elves, 
(More  witching  are  they  than  the  fays  of  old,) 
Come  forth  and  gather  them  yourselves  ; 
Leam  of  these  gentle  flowers  whose  worth  is  more 

than  gold. 

Come,  come  into  the  wood  ; 

Pierce  into  the  bowers 

Of  these  gentle  flowers, 

Which,  not  in  solitude 

Dwell,  but  with  each  other  keep  society  : 

And  with  a  simple  piety, 

Are  ready  to  be  woven  into  garlands  for  the  good. 

Or,  upon  summer  earth, 

To  die,  in  virgin  worth  ; 

Or  to  be  strewn  before  the  bride, 

And  the  bridegroom,  by  her  side. 

Come  forth  on  Sundays  ; 

•  'nine  forth  on  Mondays  ; 

Come  forth  on  any  day  ; 

Children,  come  forth  to  play  :  — 

Worship  the  God  of  Nature  in  your  childhood  ; 

Worship  him  at  your  tasks  with  best  endeavor  ; 

Worship  him  in  your  sports  ;  worship  him  ever  ; 


43— 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


"Worship  him  in  the  wildwood  ; 
"Worship  him  amidst  the  flowers  ; 
In  the  greenwood  bowers  ; 
Pluck  the  buttercups,  and  raise 
Your  voices  in  Ms  praise  ! 


Edward  Youl. 


SPRING. 

Again  the  violet  of  our  early  days 

Drinks  beauteous  azure  from  the  golden  sun, 

And  kindles  into  fragrance  at  his  blaze  ; 

The  streams,  rejoiced  that  winter's  work  is  done, 

Talk  of  to-morrow's  cowslips,  as  they  run. 

Wild  apple,  thou  art  blushing  into  bloom  ! 

Thy  leaves  are  coming,  snowy-blossomed  thorn! 

Wake,  buried  lily  !  spirit,  quit  thy  tomb  ! 

And  thou  shade-loving  hyacinth,  be  born  ! 

Then,  haste,  sweet  rose  !  sweet  woodbine,  hymn 

the  morn, 
Whose  dewdrops  shall  illume  with  pearly  light 
Each  grassy  blade  that  thick  embattled  stands 
From  sea  to  sea,  while  daisies  infinite 
Uplift  in  praise  their  little  glowing  hands, 
O'er  every  hill  that  under  heaven  expands. 

Ebenezer  Elliott. 


SPRING. 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers 

And  wake  the  purple  year  ! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat 
Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 
The  untaught  harmony  of  spring  : 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue  sky 

Their  gathered  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade, 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 

O'er-canopies  the  glade, 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 

How  indigent  the  great ! 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  care  ; 

The  panting  herds  repose  : 
Yet  hark,  how  through  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing, 


Eager  to  taste  the  honeyed  spring 
And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon  : 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gayly  gilded  trim 
Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 

To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  man  ; 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  through  life's  little  day, 
In  Fortune's  varying  colors  drest : 
Brushed  by  the  hand  of  rough  mischance 
Or  chilled  by  age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply  : 
Poor  moralist !  and  what  art  thou  ? 

A  solitary  fly  ! 
Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 
No  painted  plumage  to  display  ; 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown  ; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone,  — 

We  frolic  while  't  is  May. 

Thomas  Gray. 


SWEETLY    BREATHING,    VERNAL    AIR. 

Sweetly  breathing,  vernal  air, 
That  with  kind  warmth  doth  repair 
Winter's  ruins  ;  from  whose  breast 
All  the  gums  and  spice  of  the  East 
Borrow  their  perfumes  ;  whose  eye 
Gilds  the  morn,  and  clears  the  sky  ; 
Whose  dishevelled  tresses  shed 
Pearls  upon  the  violet  bed  ; 
On  whose  brow,  with  calm  smiles  drest 
The  halcyon  sits  and  builds  her  nest ; 
Beauty,  youth,  and  endless  spring 
Dwell  upon  thy  rosy  wing  ! 

Thou,  if  stormy  Boreas  throws 
Down  whole  forests  when  he  blows, 
With  a  pregnant,  flowery  birth, 
Canst  refresh  the  teeming  earth. 
If  he  nip  the  early  bud, 
If  he  blast  what 's  fair  or  good, 
If  he  scatter  our  choice  flowers, 
If  he  shake  our  halls  or  bowers, 
If  his  rude  breath  threaten  us, 
Thou  canst  stroke  great  iEolus, 
And  from  him  the  grace  obtain, 
To  bind  hiui  in  an  iron  chain. 

THOMAS  CAREW. 


t& 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


— 9j 

309 


SPRING. 

Behold  the  young,  the  rosy  Spring 
Gives  to  the  breeze  her  scented  wing, 
While  virgin  graces,  warm  with  May, 
Fling  roses  o'er  her  dewy  way. 
The  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep 
Have  languished  into  silent  sleep  ; 
And  mark  !  the  flitting  sea-birds  lave 
Their  plumes  in  the  reflecting  wave  ; 
While  cranes  from  hoary  winter  fly 
To  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 
Now  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  murky  clouds  away, 
And  cultured  field  and  winding  stream 
Are  freshly  glittering  in  his  beam. 

Now  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  llowery  bells  ; 
Gemming  shoots  the  olive  twine  ; 
Clusters  bright  festoon  the  vine  ; 
All  along  the  branches  creeping, 
Through  the  velvet  foliage  peeping, 
Little  infant  fruits  we  see 
Nursing  into  luxury. 

ANACREON  (Greek).    Translation 
of  Thomas  Moore. 


SPRING,    THE  SWEET  SPRING. 

Spring,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant 

king ; 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  6ting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day, 
And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet, 

Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a  sunning  sit, 

In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet, 

Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

Spring  !  the  sweet  spring  ! 

T.  Nash. 


THE   INVITATION. 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away, 
Fairer  Ear  than  this  fair  day, 
Which,  like  thee,  to  those  in  sorrow 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweel  good-morrow 

To  the  rough  year  just  awake 

In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 

The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring 

Through  the  winter  wandering, 


Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  morn 
To  hoar  February  born  ; 
Bending  from  heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
It  kissed  the  forehead  of  the  earth, 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free, 
And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains, 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 
Strewed  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs,  — 
To  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 
Its  music,  lest  it  should  not  find 
An  echo  in  another's  mind, 
While  the  touch  of  nature's  art 
Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green,  and  ivy  dun, 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun, 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 
And  the  sand-hills  of  the  sea, 
Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 
And  wind-flowers  and  violets 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new  ; 
When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dim  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  sun. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


TO   AURELIA. 

See,  the  flowery  spring  is  blown, 
Let  us  leave  the  smoky  town  ; 
From  the  mall,  and  from  the  ring, 
Every  one  has  taken  wing  ; 
Chloe,  Strephon,  Corydon, 
To  the  meadows  all  are  gone. 
What  is  left  you  worth  your  stay? 
Come,  Amelia,  come  away. 


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310 


rOEMS   OF   NATURE. 


-a 


Coine,  Aurelia,  come  and  see 
What  a  lodge  I  've  dressed  for  thee  ; 
But  the  seat  you  cannot  see, 
'T  is  so  hid  with  jessaniy, 
With  the  vine  that  o'er  the  walls, 
And  in  every  window  crawls  ; 
Let  us  there  be  blithe  and  gay  ! 
Come,  Aurelia,  come  away. 

Come  with  all  thy  sweetest  wiles, 

With  thy  graces  and  thy  smiles  ; 

Come,  and  we  will  merry  be, 

Who  shall  be  so  blest  as  we  ? 

We  will  frolic  all  the  day, 

Haste,  Aurelia,  while  we  may  : 

Ay  !  and  should  not  life  be  gay  ? 

Yes,  Aurelia,  —  come  away. 

John  Dyer. 


MAY   MORNING. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 

Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 

The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 

The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May  !   that  doth  inspire 

Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire  ; 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 

Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 

And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

Milton. 


MAY. 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 
Tell  of  serener  hours,  — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 
Beauty  is  budding  there  ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 
A  canopy  of  leaves  ; 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 


Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May  ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind  play  ; 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 

As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 

Hail  the  returning  sun. 

James  Gates  Percival. 


THEY  COME!   THE  MERRY  SUMMER 
MONTHS. 

They    come  !    the    merry   summer  months   of 

beauty,  song,  and  flowers  ; 
They  come !    the  gladsome  months  that   bring 

thick  leanness  to  bowers. 
Up,  up,  my  heart  !  and  walk  abroad  ;  fling  cark 

and  care  aside  ; 
Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful 

waters  glide  ; 
Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarchal 

tree, 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt 

tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to 
the  hand  ; 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze  is 
sweet  and  bland  ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding  cour- 
teously ; 

It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love,  to  bless 
and  welcome  thee  ; 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks  — 
they  now  are  silvery  gray  — 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whisper- 
ing, "Be  gay  !" 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of 

yon  sky 
But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners   to   give   it 

melody  ; 
Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outspread,   all 

gleaming  like  red  gold  ; 
And  hark  !  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry 

course  they  hold. 
God  bless  them  all,  those  little  ones,  who,  far 

above  this  earth, 
Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a 

nobler  mirth. 

But  soft  !  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound,  —  from 

yonder  wood  it  came  ! 
The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  hia 

own  glad  name  ;  — 
Yes,  it  is  he  !  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart  from 

all  his  kind, 


TT 


SUNRISE     IN     THE     MOUNTAINS. 


"  The  dri/iping  rock,  the  mountain ' s  mistv  tof>. 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn.' 


ff 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


■a 


311 


Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous   to   the   soft 

western  wind  ; 
Cuckoo  !  Cuckoo  !  he  sings  again,  —  his  notes  are 

void  of  art ; 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the  deep 

founts  of  the  heart. 

Good  Lord  !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought- 
crazed  wight  like  me, 

To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this 
summer  tree  ! 

To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little 
souls  away, 

And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's 
bright  summer  day, 

When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the  reck- 
less, truant  boy 

"Wandered  through  greenwoods  all  day  long,  a 
mighty  heart  of  joy  ! 

I  'm  sadder  now,  —  I  have  had  cause  ;  but  0, 

I  'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  yore,  I  yet 

delight  to  drink  ;  — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,    the 

calm,  unclouded  sky, 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the 

days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round 

me  dark  and  cold, 
I  '11  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse,  —  a  heart 

that  hath  waxed  old  ! 

William  Motherwell. 


housed  by  the  cock,  the  soon-clad  shepherd  leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  peace  he  dwells  ; 
And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 
His  flock,  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  morn. 

James  Thomson. 


SUMMER   MORNING. 

FROM    "THE   SEASONS." 

Short  is  the  doubtful  empire  of  the  night ; 
And  soon,  observant  of  approaching  day, 
Tin-  meek-eyed  morn  appears,  mother  of  dews, 
At  first  faint  gleaming  in  the  dappled  east,  — 
Till  far  o'er  ether  spreads  the  widening  glow, 
And,  from  before  the  lustre  of  her  face, 
White  break  the  clouds  away.     With  quickened 

step, 
Brown  eight  retires.     Young  day  pours  in  apace, 
And  opens  all  the  lawny  prospect  wide. 
The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  top, 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 
Blue,  through  the  dusk,  the  smoking  currents 

shine  ; 
And  from  the  bladed  Geld  the  fearful  hare 
Limps,  awkward  ;  while  along  the  forest  glade 
The  wild  deer  trip,  and  often  turning  gaze 
At  early  passenger,     Music  awakes, 
The  native  roice  of  andissenibled  joy  ; 
And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 


SONG   OF  THE   SUMMER   WINDS. 

Up  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne, 

O'er  the  meadow  swift  we  fly  ; 
Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 


Now  we  whisth 


now  we  sigh. 


By  the  grassy-fringed  river, 

Through  the  murmuring  reeds  we  sweep 
Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  quiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 

At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 
While  aside  her  cheek  we  're  rushing, 

Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  groves  we  rustle, 
Kissing  every  bud  we  pass,  — 

As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle, 
Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 
O'er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam, 

Whirling  round  about  the  fountain, 
Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  the  weeping  willows, 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh  ; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 
Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 

Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 
Till  we  're  at  our  play  again. 

GEORGE  DARLEV. 


RAIN    IN   SUMMER. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  ii  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overfloiring  spout ! 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


■ft 


Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion  ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand  ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 
The  Poet  sees  ! 
He  can  behold 
Acmarius  old 


Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  ; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  underground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 

Henry  wadsworth  Longfellow 


A  JUNE   DAY. 

Who  has  not  dreamed  a  world  of  bliss 
On  a  bright  sunny  noon  like  this, 
Couched  by  his  native  brook's  green  maze, 
With  comrade  of  his  boyish  days, 
While  all  around  them  seemed  to  be 
Just  as  in  joyous  infancy  ? 
Who  has  not  loved  at  such  an  hour, 
Upon  that  heath,  in  birchen  bower, 
Lulled  in  the  poet's  dreamy  mood, 
Its  wild  and  sunny  solitude  ? 
While  o'er  the  waste  of  purple  ling 
You  mark  a  sultry  glimmering  ; 
Silence  herself  there  seems  to  sleep, 
Wrapped  in  a  slumber  long  and  deep, 
Where  slowly  stray  those  lonely  sheep 
Through  the  tall  foxglove's  crimson  bloom, 
And  gleaming  of  the  scattered  broom. 
Love  you  not,  then,  to  list  and  hear 


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ft 


The  crackling  of  the  gorse-flowers  near, 

Pouring  an  orange-scented  tide 

Of  fragrance  o'er  the  desert  wide  ? 

To  hear  the  buzzard's  whimpering  shrill, 

Hovering  above  you  high  and  still  ? 

The  twittering  of  the  bird  that  dwells 

Among  the  heath's  delicious  bells  ? 

While  round  your  bed,  o'er  fern  and  blade, 

Insects  in  green  and  gold  arrayed, 

The  sun's  gay  tribes  have  lightly  strayed  ; 

And  sweeter  sound  their  humming  wings 

Than  the  proud  minstrel's  echoing  strings. 

William  Howitt. 


SUMMER  MOODS. 

I  love  at  eventide  to  walk  alone, 
Down  narrow  glens,  o'erhung  with  dewy  thorn, 
Where,  from  the  long  grass  underneath,  the  snail, 
Jet  black,  creeps  out,  and  sprouts  his  timid  horn. 
I  love  to  muse  o'er  meadows  newly  mown, 
Where  withering  grass  perfumes  the  sultry  air  ; 
Where  bees  search  round,  with  sad  and  weary 

drone, 
In  vain,  for  flowers   that   bloomed   but   newly 

there  ; 
While  in  the  juicy  corn  the  hidden  quail 
Cries,    "Wet  my  foot"  ;  and,   hid  as  thoughts 

unborn, 
The  fairy-like  and  seldom-seen  land-rail 
Utters  "Craik,  craik,"  like  voices  underground, 
Right  glad  to  meet  the  evening's  dewy  veil, 
And  see  the  light  fade  into  gloom  around. 

JOHN  CLARE. 


17  Low  o'er  the  grass  the  swallow  wings, 

18  The  cricket,  too,  how  sharp  he  sings, 

19  Puss  on  the  hearth,  with  velvet  paws, 

20  Sits  wiping  o'er  her  whiskered  jaws, 

21  Through  the  clear  streams  the  fishes  rise, 

22  And  nimbly  catch  the  incautious  flies. 

23  The  glow-worms,  numerous  and  light, 

24  Illumed  the  dewy  dell  last  night, 

25  At  dusk  the  squalid  toad  was  seen, 

26  Hopping  and  crawling  o'er  the  green, 

27  The  whirling  dust  the  wind  obeys, 

28  And  in  the  rapid  eddy  plays  ; 

29  The  frog  has  changed  his  yellow  vest, 

30  And  in  a  russet  coat  is  dressed. 

31  Though  June,  the  air  is  cold  and  still, 

32  The  mellow  blackbird's  voice  is  shrill ; 

33  My  dog,  so  altered  in  his  taste, 

34  Quits  mutton-bones  on  grass  to  feast ; 

35  And  see  yon  rooks,  how  odd  their  flight, 

36  They  imitate  the  gliding  kite, 

37  And  seem  precipitate  to  fall, 

38  As  if  they  felt  the  piercing  ball. 

39  'T  will  surely  rain  ;  I  see  with  sorrow, 

40  Our  jaunt  must  be  put  off  to-morrow. 

ANONYMOUS. 


SIGNS   OF  RAIN. 

FORTY   REASONS    FOR    NOT  ACCEPTING  AN    INVITATION   OF 
A    FRIEND   TO    MAKE    AN   EXCURSION   WITH    HIM. 

1  The  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow  ; 

2  The  clouds  look  black)  the  glass  is  low, 

3  The  soot  falls  down,  the  spaniels  sleep, 

4  And  spiders  from  their  cobwebs  peep. 

5  Last  night  the  sun  went  pale  to  bed, 

6  The  nioon  in  halos  bid  her  head  ; 

7  The  boding  shepherd  heaves  a  sigh, 

8  For  see  a  rainbow  spans  the  sky. 

9  The  walls  are  damp,  the  ditches  smell, 

10  Closed  is  the  pink-eyed  pimpernel. 

11  Hark  how  the  chairs  and  tallies  crack  ! 

12  Old  Betty's  nerves  are  oil  the  rack  ; 

13  Loud  quacks  the  'luck,  the  peacocks  cry, 

14  The  distant  hills  are  seeming  nigh. 

15  How  restless  are  the  snorting  swine  1 

16  The  busy  Hies  disturb  the  kine  ; 


SUMMER   STORM. 

Untremulous  in  the  river  clear, 
Toward  the  sky's  image,  hangs  the  imaged  bridge  ; 

So  still  the  air  that  I  can  hear 
The  slender  clarion  of  the  unseen  midge  ; 

Out  of  the  stillness,  with  a  gathering  creep, 
Like  rising  wind  in  leaves,  which  now  decreases, 
Now  lulls,  now  swells,  and  all  the  while  increases. 

The  huddling  trample  of  a  drove  of  sheep 
Tilts  the  loose  planks,  and  then  as  gradually  ceases 
In  dust  on  the  other  side  ;  life's  emblem  deep, 
A  confused  noise  between  two  silences, 
Finding  at  last  in  dust  precarious  peace. 
On  the  wide  marsh  the  purple-blossomed  grasses 
Soak  up  the  sunshine  ;  sleeps  the  brimming 
tide 
Save  when  the  wedge-shaped  wake  in  silence  passes 
Of  some  slow  water-rat,  whose  sinuous  glide 
Wavers  the  long  green  sedge's  shade  from  side 
to  side  ; 
But  up  the  west,  like  a  rock -shivered  surge, 
Climbs  a  great  cloud  edged  with  sun-whitened 
spray  ; 
Huge  whirls  of  foam  boil  toppling  o'er  its  verge, 
And  fallings)  ill  it. seems,  and  yetitclimbsalway. 


Suddenly  nil  the  sky  is  hid 
As  with  the  shutting  of  a  lid, 
One  by  one  greal  drops  are  falling 
Doubtfid  and  slow, 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


Down  the  pane  they  are  crookedly  crawling, 

And  the  wind  breathes  low  ; 
Slowly  the  circles  widen  on  the  river, 

"Widen  and  mingle,  one  and  all ; 
Here  and  there  the  slenderer  flowers  shiver, 

Struck  by  an  icy  rain-drop's  fall. 

Now  on  the  hills  I  hear  the  thunder  mutter, 

The  wind  is  gathering  in  the  west ; 
The  upturned  leaves  first  whiten  and  flutter, 

Then  droop  to  a  fitful  rest ; 
Up  from  the  stream  with  sluggish  flap 

Struggles  the  gull  and  floats  away  ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  rolls  the  thunder-clap,  — 

We  shall  not  see  the  sun  go  down  to-day  : 
Now  leaps  the  wind  on  the  sleepy  marsh, 

And  tramples  the  grass  with  terrified  feet, 
The  startled  river  turns  leaden  and  harsh, 

You  can  hear  the  quick  heart  of  the  tempest  beat. 

Look  !  look  !  that  livid  flash  ! 
And  instantly  follows  the  rattling  thunder, 
As  if  some  cloud-crag,  split  asunder, 

Fell,  splintering  with  a  ruinous  crash, 
On  the  Earth,  which  crouches  in  silence  under  ; 

And  now  a  solid  gray  wall  of  rain 
Shuts  off  the  landscape,  mile  by  mile  ; 

For  a  breath's  space  I  see  the  blue  wood  again, 
And,  ere  the  next  heart-beat,  the  wind-hurled  pile, 
That  seemed  but  now  a  league  aloof, 
Bursts  crackling  o'er  the  sun-parched  roof ; 
Against  the  windows  the  storm  comes  dashing, 
Through  tattered  foliage  the  hail  tears  crashing, 
The  blue  lightning  flashes, 
The  rapid  hail  clashes, 
The  white  waves  are  tumbling, 

And,  in  one  baffled  roar, 
Like  the  toothless  sea  mumbling 

A  rock -bristled  shore, 
The  thunder  is  rumbling 
And  crashing  and  crumbling,  — 
"Will  silence  return  nevermore  ? 

Hush  !     Still  as  death, 
The  tempest  holds  his  breath 
As  from  a  sudden  will  ; 
The  rain  stops  short,  but  from  the  eaves 
You  see  it  drop,  and  hear  it  from  the  leaves, 
All  is  so  bodingly  still  ; 
Again,  now,  now,  again 
Plashes  the  rain  in  heavy  gouts, 
The  crinkled  lightning 
Seems  ever  brightening, 
And  loud  and  long 
Again  the  thunder  shouts 

His  battle-song,  — 
One  quivering  flash, 
One  wildering  crash, 


Followed  by  silence  dead  and  dull, 
As  if  the  cloud,  let  go, 
Leapt  bodily  below 
To  whelm  the  earth  in  one  mad  overthrow, 
And  then  a  total  lull. 

Gone,  gone,  so  soon  ! 

No  more  my  half-crazed  fancy  there 

Can  shape  a  giant  in  the  air, 

No  more  I  see  his  streaming  hair, 

The  writhing  portent  of  his  form  ;  — 

The  pale  and  quiet  moon 

Makes  her  calm  forehead  bare, 

And  the  last  fragments  of  the  storm, 

Like  shattered  rigging  from  a  fight  at  sea, 

Silent  and  few,  are  drifting  over  me. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


A   SUMMER   EVENING. 

How  fine  has  the  day  been!  how  bright  was  the  sun! 
How  lovely  and  joyful  the  course  that  he  run, 
Though  he  rose  in  a  mist  when  his  race  he  begun, 

And  there  followed  some  droppings  of  rain  ! 
But  now  the  fair  traveller 's  come  to  the  west, 
His  rays  are  all  gold,  and  his  beauties  are  best  : 
He  paints  the  sky  gay  as  he  sinks  to  his  rest, 

And  foretells  a  bright  rising  again. 

Just  such  is  the  Christian  ;  his  course  he  begins, 
Like  the  sun  in  amist,  when  he  mourns  for  his  sins, 
And  melts  into  tears  ;  then  he  breaks  out  and 
shines, 

And  travels  his  heavenly  way  : 
But  when  he  comes  nearer  to  finish  his  race, 
Like  a  fine  setting  sun,  he  looks  richer  in  grace, 
And  gives  a  sure  hope,  at  the  end  of  his  days, 

Of  rising  in  brighter  array.  ISAAC  WATTS. 


MOONLIGHT   IN   SUMMER. 

Low  on  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  sight, 
The  rising  vapors  catch  the  silver  light ; 
Thence  fancy  measures,  as  they  parting  fly, 
Which  first  will  throw  its  shadow  on  the  eye, 
Passing  the  source  of  light ;  and  thence  away, 
Succeeded  quick  by  brighter  still  than  they. 
For  yet  above  these  wafted  clouds  are  seen 
(In  a  remoter  sky  still  more  serene) 
Others,  detached  in  ranges  through  the  air, 
Spotless  as  snow,  and  countless  as  they  're  fair  ; 
Scattered  immensely  wide  from  east  to  west, 
The  beauteous  semblance  of  a  flock  at  rest. 
These,  to  the  raptured  mind,  aloud  proclaim 
Their  mighty  Shepherd's  everlasting  name  ; 


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315 


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And  thus  the  loiterer's  utmost  stretch  of  soul 

Climbs  the  still  clouds,  or  passes  those  that  roll, 

And  loosed  imagination  soaring  goes 

High  o'er  his  home  and  all  his  little  woes. 

Robert  Bloomfield. 


A  SUMMER   EVENING'S   MEDITATION. 

"  One  sun  by  day,  by  night  ten  thousand  shine."  — YOUNC. 

'T  is  past,  —  the  sultry  tyrant  of  the  South 
Has  spent  his  short-lived  rage  ;  more  grateful  hours 
Move  silent  on  ;  the  skies  no  more  repel 
The  dazzled  sight,  but,  with  mild  maiden  beams 
Of  tempered  lustre,  court  the  cherished  eye 
To  wander  o'er  their  sphere  ;  where,  hung  aloft, 
Dian's  bright  crescent,  like  a  silver  bow, 
New  strung  in  heaven,  lifts  its  beamy  horns 
Impatient  for  the  night,  and  seems  to  push 
Her  brother  down  the  sky.     Fair  Venus  shines 
Even  in  the  eye  of  day  ;  with  sweetest  beam 
Propitious  shines,  and  shakes  a  trembling  flood 
Of  softened  radiance  with  her  dewy  locks. 
The  shadows  spread  apace  ;  while  meek  en  ed  Eve, 
Her  cheek  yet  warm  with  blushes,  slow  retires 
Through  the  Hesperian  gardens  of  the  West, 
And  shuts  the  gates  of  Day.     'T  is  now  the  hour 
When  Contemplation,  from  her  sunless  haunts, 
The  cool  damp  grotto,  or  th<'  lonely  depth 
Of  unpierced  woods,  where  wrapt  in  solid  shade 
She  mused  away  the  gaudy  hours  of  noon, 
And  fed  on  thoughts  unripened  by  the  sun, 
Moves  forward  and  with  radiant  finger  points 
To  yon  blue  concave  swelled  by  breath  divine, 
"Where,  one  by  one,  the  living  eyes  of  heaven 
Awake,  quirk  kindling  o'er  the  face  of  ether 
One  boundless  blaze  ;   ten   thousand  trembling 

fires, 
And  dancing  lustres,  where  the  unsteady  eye, 
Restless  and  dazzled,  wanders  unconfined 
O'er  all  this  field  of  glories  ;  spacious  field, 
And  worthy  of  the  Master  :  He  whose  hand 
With  hieroglyphics  elder  than  the  Nile 
Inscribed  the  mystic  tablet  ;  hung  on  high 
To  public  gaze,  and  said,  Adore,  0  man  ! 
Tin'  finger  <<f  thy  God.     From  what  pure  wells 
Of  milky  light,  what  soft  o'erflowing  urn, 
Are  all    these  lamps  so  tilled? — these  friendly 

lamps, 
Forever  streaming  o'er  the  azure  deep 
To  point  our  path,  and  light  us  to  our  home. 
How  Boft  they  slide  along  their  lucid  spheres  ! 
And,  silent  as  the  foot  of  Time,  fulfil 
Their  destined  courses.    Nature's  self  is  hushed, 
And  hut  a  scattered  leaf,  which  rustles  through 
The  thick-wove  foliage,  not  a  sound  is  heard 
To  break  the  midnighl  air ;  though  the  raised  ear, 
Intently  listening,  drinks  in  every  breath. 


i  How  deep  the  silence,  yet  how  loud  the  praise  ! 
But  are  they  silent  all  ?  or  is  there  not 
A  tongue  in  every  star  that  talks  with  man, 
And  wooes  him  to  be  wise  ?  nor  wooes  in  vain  : 
This  dead  of  midnight  is  the  noon  of  thought, 
And  Wisdom  mounts  her  zenith  with  the  stars. 
At  this  still  hour  the  self-collected  soul 
Turns  inward,  and  beholds  a  stranger  there 
Of  high  descent,  and  more  than  mortal  rank  ; 
An  embryo  God  ;  a  spark  of  fire  divine, 
Which  must  burn  on  for  ages,  when  the  sun 
(Fair  transitory  creature  of  a  day  !) 
Has  closed  his  golden  eye,  and,  wrapt  in  shades, 
Forgets  his  wonted  journey  through  the  East. 

Ye  citadels  of  light,  and  seats  of  gods  ! 
Perhaps  my  future  home,  from  whence  the  soul, 
Revolving  periods  past,  may  oft  look  back, 
With  recollected  tenderness,  on  all 
The  various  busy  scenes  she  left  below, 
Its  deep-laid  projects  and  its  strange  events, 
As  on  some  fond  and  doting  tale  that  soothed 
Her  infant  hours,  ■ —  0,  be  it  lawful  now 
To  tread  the  hallowed  circle  of  your  courts, 
And  with  mute  wonder  and  delighted  awe 
Approach    your    burning    confines.       Seized    in 

thought, 
On  Fancy's  wild  and  roving  wing  I  sail, 
From  the  green  borders  of  the  peopled  earth, 
And  the  pale  moon,  her  duteous,  fair  attendant ; 
From  solitary  Mars  ,  from  the  vast  orb 
Of  Jupiter,  whose  huge  gigantic  bulk 
Dances  in  ether  like  the  lightest  leaf; 
To  the  dim  verge,  the  suburbs  of  the  system, 
Where  cheerless  Saturn  midst  his  watery  moons 
Girt  with  a  lucid  zone,  in  gloomy  pomp, 
Sits  like  an  exiled  monarch  :  fearless  thence 
I  launch  into  the  trackless  deeps  of  space, 
Where,  burning  round,  ten  thousand  suns  appear, 
Of  elder  beam,  which  ask  no  leave  to  shine 
Of  our  terrestrial  star,  nor  borrow  light 
From  the  proud  regent  of  our  scanty  day  ; 
Sons  of  the  morning,  first-born  of  creation, 
And  only  less  than  Him  who  marks  their  track 
And  guides  their  fiery  wheels.    Here  must  1  stop, 
Or  is  there  aught  beyond  !  What  hand  unseen 
Impels  me  onward  through  the  glowing  orbs 
( >f  habitable  nature,  far  remote, 
To  the  dread  confines  of  eternal  night, 

To  solitudes  of  waste  Unpeopled  space. 

The  deserts  of  creation,  wide  and  wild  ; 

Where  embryo  systems  and  onkindled  suns 
Sleep  in  the  womb  of  chaos  ?     Fancy  droops, 
And  Thought,  astonished,  stops  her  hold  career. 
Put,  Othou  mighty  Mind  !  whose  powerful  word 
Said,    '•Thus  let   all   things  be,"   and   thus  they 

were, 
Where  shall  I  seek  thy  presence  ?  how  unblamed 
Invoke  thy  dread  perfection  ? 


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Have  the  broad  eyelids  of  the  morn  beheld  thee  ? 

Or  does  the  beamy  shoulder  of  Orion 

Support  thy  throne  ?  0,  look  with  pity  down 

On  erring,  guilty  man  :  not  in  thy  names 

Of  terror  clad  ;  not  with  those  thunders  armed 

That  eonscious  Sinai  felt,  when  fear  appalled 

The  scattered  tribes  ;  thou  hast  a  gentler  voice, 

That  whispers  comfort  to  the  swelling  heart, 

Abashed,  yet  longing  to  behold  her  Maker  ! 

But  now  my  soul,  unused  to  stretch  her  powers 

In  flight  so  daring,  drops  her  weary  wing, 

And  seeks  again  the  known  accustomed  spot, 

Drest  up  with  sun   and  shade   and  lawns   and 

streams, 

A  mansion  fair  and  spacious  for  its  guests, 

And  all  replete  with  wonders.     Let  me  here, 

Content  and  grateful,  wait  the  appointed  time, 

And  ripen  for  the  skies  :  the  hour  will  come 

When  all  these  splendors  bursting  on  my  sight 

Shall  stand  unveiled,  and  to  my  ravished  sense 

Unlock  the  glories  of  the  world  unknown. 

Anna  L^etitia  Barbauld. 


THE   LATTER   RAIN. 

The  latter  rain,  —  it  falls  in  anxious  haste 
Upon  the  sun-dried  fields  and  branches  bare, 
Loosening  with  searching  drops  the  rigid  waste 
As  if  it  would  each  root's  lost  strength  repair  ; 
But  not  a  blade  grows  green  as  in  the  spring  ; 
No  swelling  twig  puts  forth  its  thickening  leaves  ; 
The  robins  only  mid  the  harvests  sing, 
Pecking  the  grain  that  scatters  from  the  sheaves  ; 
The  rain  falls  still,  —  the  fruit  all  ripened  drops, 
It  pierces  chestnut-burr  and  walnut-shell  ; 
The  furrowed  fields  disclose  the  yellow  crops  ; 
Each  bursting  pod  of  talents  used  can  tell ; 
And  all  that  once  received  the  early  rain 
Declare  to  man  it  was  not  sent  in  vain. 

Jones  Very. 


AUTUMN. 

The  autumn  is  old  ; 
The  sear  leaves  are  flying  ; 
He  hath  gathered  up  gold, 
Ami  now  he  is  dying  : 
Old  age,  begin  sighing  ! 

The  vintage  is  ripe  ; 
The  harvest  is  heaping  ; 
But  some  that  have  sowed 
Have  no  riches  for  reaping  :- 
Poor  wretch,  fall  a- weeping  ! 

The  year  'a  in  the  wane  ; 
There  is  nothing  adorning  ; 


The  night  has  no  eve, 

And  the  day  has  no  morning  ; 

Cold  winter  gives  warning. 

The  rivers  run  chill  ; 
The  red  sun  is  sinking  ; 
And  I  am  grown  old, 
And  life  is  fast  shrinking  ; 
Here 's  enow  for  sad  thinking  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


AUTUMN. 

The  warm  sun  is   failing  ;  the  bleak   wind  is 

wailing ; 
The  bare  boughs  are  sighing ;  the  pale  flowers 
are  dying  ; 
And  the  Year 
On  the  earth,  her  death-bed,  in  shroud  of  leaves 
dead, 
Is  lying. 
Come,  months,  come  away, 
From  November  to  May  ; 
In  your  saddest  array 
Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead,  cold  Year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill   rain   is   falling ;    the   nipt   worm   is 

crawling  ; 
The  rivers  are  swelling  ;  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  year  ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards 
each  gone 
To  his  dwelling  ; 
Come,  months,  come  away  ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray  ; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play,  — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead,  cold  Year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 

From  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's  moon. 

In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 

Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 

"Whereon  it  falls 

Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  ! 

John  greenleaf  Whittier. 


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INDIAN   SUMMER. 

When  leaves  grow  sear  all  things  take  sombre  hue  ; 
The   wild   winds   waltz   no  more  the  woodside 

through, 
And  all  the  faded  grass  is  wet  with  dew. 

A  gauzy  nebula  films  the  pensive  sky, 

The  golden  bee  supinely  buzzes  by, 

In  silent  flocks  the  bluebirds  southward  fly. 

The  forests'  cheeks  are  crimsoned  o'er  with  shame, 

The  cynic  frost  enlaces  every  lane, 

The  ground  with  scarlet  blushes  is  aflame  ! 

The  one  we  love  grows  lustrous-eyed  and  sad, 
With  sympathy  too  thoughtful  to  be  glad, 
"While  all  the  colors  round  are  running  mad. 

The  sunbeams  kiss  askant  the  sombre  hill, 
The  naked  woodbine  climbs  the  window-sill, 
The  breaths  that  noon  exhales  are  faint  and  chill. 

The  ripened  nuts  drop  downward  day  by  day, 
Sounding  the  hollow  tocsin  of  decay, 
And  bandit  squirrels  smuggle  them  away. 

Vague  sighs  and  scents  pervade  the  atmosphere, 
Sounds  of  invisible  stirrings  hum  the  ear, 
The  morning's  lash  reveals  a  frozen  tear. 

The  hermit  mountains  gird  themselves  with  mail, 
Mocking  the  threshers  with  an  echo  flail, 
The  while  the  afternoons  grow  crisp  and  pale. 

Inconstant  Summer  to  the  tropics  flees, 

And,  as  her  rose-sails  catch  the  amorous  breeze, 

Lo  !  bare,  brown  Autumn  trembles  to  her  knees  ! 

The  stealthy  nights  encroach  upon  the  days, 
The  earth  with  sudden  whiteness  is  ablaze, 
Ami  all  her  paths  are  lost  in  crystal  maze  ! 

Tread  lightly  where  the  dainty  violets  blew, 
Where  the  spring  winds  their  soft  eyes  open  flew  ; 
Sadly  they  sleep  the  churlish  winter  through. 

Though  all  life's  portals  are  indiced  with  woe, 
And  frozen  pearls  are  all  the  world  ran  show, 
Feel  !  Nature's  breath  is  warm  beneath  the  snow. 

Look  up  !  dear  mourners  !    Still  the  blue  expanse, 
Serenely  tender,  bends  to  catch  thy  glance, 
Within  thy  tears  sibyllic  sunbeams  dance  ! 

With  blooms  full-sapped  again  will  smile  the  land. 
The  fall  is  lmt  the  folding  of  His  hand, 
Anon  with  fuller  glories  to  expand. 

The  dumb  heart  hid  beneath  the  pulseless  tree 
Will  throb  again  ;  and  then  the  torpid  bee 

Upon  the  ear  will  drone  his  drowsy  glee. 


So  shall  the  truant  bluebirds  backward  fly, 
And  all  loved  things  that  vanish  or  that  die 
Return  to  us  in  some  sweet  By-and-By  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


NO! 


No  sun  —  no  moon  ! 
No  morn  —  no  noon  — 
No  dawn  —  no  dust  —  no  proper  time  of  day  — 
No  sky  —  no  earthly  view  — 


No  distance  looking  blue  ■ 
No   road  — no    street— no    "t'other   side    the 
way"  — 

No  end  to  any  Row  — 

No  indications  where  the  Crescents  go — 

No  top  to  any  steeple  — 
No  recognitions  of  familiar  people  — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em  — 

No  knowing  'em  ! 
No  travelling  at  all  —  no  locomotion, 
No  inkling  of  the  way —  no  notion  — 

"  No  go  "  —  by  land  or  ocean  — 

No  mail  —  no  post  — 

No  news  from  any  foreign  coast  — 
No  park  —  no  ring  —  no  afternoon  gentility  — 

No  company  —  no  nobility  — 
No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 

No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member  — 
No  shade,  no  shine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees, 
No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 

November  !  THOMAS  Hooo# 


WINTER  SONG. 

Summer  joys  are  o'er  ; 

Flowerets  bloom  no  more, 
Wintry  winds  are  sweeping  ; 
Through  the  snow-drifts  peeping, 

Cheerful  evergreen 

Rarely  now  is  seen. 

Now  no  plumed  throng 

Charms  the  wood  with  song  ; 
Ice-bound  trees  are  glittering  ; 
Merry  snow-birds,  twittering, 

Fondly  strive  to  cheer 

Scenes  so  cold  and  drear. 

Winter,  still  I  see 

Many  charms  in  thee,  — 
Love  thy  chilly  greeting, 
Snow-storms  fiercely  beating, 

And  the  dear  delights 

Of  the  Long,  long  nights. 

LUDWIG  Iliii.TY  (German).     Translation  ot 

i  harli  s  i .  Brooks. 


-ff 


a- 


318 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


WINTER. 

FROM    "THE   WINTER   MORNING   WALK." 

'T  is  morning  ;  and  the  sun,  with  ruddy  orb 
Ascending,  fires  the  horizon  ;  while  the  clouds, 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind, 
More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 
Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze, 
Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.     His  slanting  ray 
Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 
And,  tingeing  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue, 
From  every  herb  and  every  spiry  blade 
Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field. 
Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense, 
In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 
That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 
Provokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askance 
I  view  the  muscular  proportioned  limb 
Transformed  to  a  lean  shank.    The  shapeless  pair, 
As  they  designed  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 
Take  step  for  step  ;  and,  as  I  near  approach 
The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plastered  wall, 
Preposterous  sight  !  the  legs  without  the  man. 
The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge. ;  and  the  bents, 
And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o'er  the  rest, 
Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  now  shine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad, 
And,  fledged  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 
The  cattle  mourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder  ;  not,  like  hungering  man, 
Fretful  if  unsupplied  ;  but  silent,  meek, 
And,  patient  of  the  slow-paced  swain's  delay. 
He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustomed  load, 
Deep  plunging,  and  again  deep  plunging  oft, 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass  : 
Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 
With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away  :  no  needless  care 
Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight. 
Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcerned 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  men,  to  wield  the  axe 
Ami  drive  the  wedge  in  yonder  forest  drear, 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy  and  lean  and  shrewd  with  pointed  ears, 
Ami  tail  cropped  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur, 
His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow  ;  and  now,  with  many  a  frisk 
Wide-scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 
With  ivory  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout ; 
Then  shakes  his  powdered  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 

Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighboring  pale, 
Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  day,  they  gossiped  side  by  side, 


Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well-known  call 
The  feathered  tribes  domestic.     Half  on  wing, 
And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 
Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 
The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves 
To  seize  the  fair  occasion.     Well  they  eye 
The  scattered  grain,  and  thievishly  resolved 
To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scared 
As  oft  return,  a  pert  voracious  kind. 
Clean  riddance  cpuickly  made,  one  only  care 
Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 
Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.     Resigned 
To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 
His  wonted  strut,  and,  wading  at  their  head 
With  well-considered  steps,  seems  to  resent 
His  altered  gait  and  stateliness  retrenched. 
How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 
The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 
Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  ? 
Earth  yields  them  naught ;  the  imprisoned  worm 

is  safe 
Beneath  the  frozen  clod  ;  all  seeds  of  herbs 
Lie  covered  close  ;  and  berry-bearing  thorns, 
That  feed  the  thrush  (whatever  some  suppose), 
Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 
The  long  protracted  rigor  of  the  year 
Thins  all  their  numerous  flocks.     In  chinks  and 

holes 
Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end, 
As  instinct  prompts  ;  self- buried  ere  they  die. 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 


WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 

TrrE  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood, 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.    But  now  at  noon 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 
And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 
The  dazzling  splendor  of  the  scene  below. 

Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale  ; 
And  through  the  trees  I  view  the  embattled  tower, 
Whence  all  the  music.     I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 
And  settle  in  soft  nrasings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms, 
Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 
The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 
With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  sup- 
pressed : 
Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 
From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 
From  many  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice, 
That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 


cu 


# 


rfl- 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


—a 

H9      I 


Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 
Charms  more  than  silence.     Meditation  here 
May  think  down  hours  to  moments.     Here  the 

heart 
May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 

And  Learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 

William  Cowper. 


WINTER  SCENES. 

The  keener  tempests  rise  :  and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  livid  east,  or  piercing  north, 
Thick  clouds  ascend  ;  in  whose  capacious  womb 
A  vapory  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congealed. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along  ; 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 
Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower 

descends 
At  first  thin  wavering  ;  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad  and  wide  and  fast,  dimming  the  day 
With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white. 
'T  is  brightness  all ;  save  where  the  new  snow 

melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.     Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head  ;  and,  ere  the  languid  sun 
Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep  hid  and  chill, 
Is  one  wide  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  laborer-ox 
Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
Hi6  annual  visit.     Half  afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats  ;  then,  brisk,  alights 
On   the   warm  hearth  ;   then,  hopping  o'er  the 

floor, 

Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 

And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is  : 

Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the"  table-crumbs 

Attract  his  slender  feet.      Tin-  I'uodless  wilds 

Pour  loi  ih  their  brown  inhabitants.     The  hare, 

Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 

By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares,  and  dogs, 

And  more  unpitying  man,  the  garden  seeks, 

Urged  on  by  fearless  Want.    The  bleating  kind 

Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening 

earth, 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair  ;  then,  saddispersed, 

Digfor  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 

jambs  thi  >mson.     i 


WHEN    ICICLES   HANG   BY  THE  WALL. 

FROM    "  LOVE'S    LABOR  *S   LOST." 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who  ; 
To-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who ; 
To-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


THE   SNOW-STORM. 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow  ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight ;  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  -traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,   the  housemates 

sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door  ; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage  ;  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths  ; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn  ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs  ;  and  at  the  gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
'I'll  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


■ff 


a- 


320 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


-^ 


THE   SNOW-SHOWER. 

Stand  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray, 
On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes  ; 

The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 
And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies  ; 

And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 

In  wavering  flakes  begins  to  flow  ; 

Flake  after  flake 

They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 

From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veil ; 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 

Rush  prone  from  the  sky  like  summer  hail. 

All,  dropping  swiftly  or  settling  slow, 

Meet,  and  are  still  in  the  depths  below  ; 
Flake  after  flake 

Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Here  delicate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud, 
Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play, 

Like  spangles  dropped  from  the  glistening  crowd 
That  whiten  by  night  the  Milky  Way  ; 

There  broader  and  burlier  masses  fall ; 

The  sullen  water  buries  them  all,  — ■ 

Flake  after  flake,  — 

All  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

And  some,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 

From  their  chilly  birth-cloud,  dim  and  gray, 

Are  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side, 
Come  clinging  along  their  unsteady  way  ; 

As  friend  with  friend,  or  husband  with  wife, 

Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life  ; 
Each  mated  flake 

Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Lo  !  while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 

Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white, 
As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased, 

They   fling   themselves   from    their   shadowy 
height. 
The  fair,  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky, 
What  speed  they  make,  with  their  grave  so  nigh  ; 

Flake  after  flake 
To  lie  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake  I 

I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear  ; 

They  turn  to  ine  in  sorrowful  thought ; 
Thou  thinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear, 

"Who  were  for  a  time,  and  now  are  not ; 
Like  these  fair  children  of  cloud  and  frost, 
That  glisten  a  moment  and  then  are  lost,  — 

Flake  after  flake,  — 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Yet  look  again,  for  the  clouds  divide  ; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies  ; 
And  far  away,  on  the  mountain-side, 

A  sunbeam  falls  from  the  opening  skies. 


But  the  hurrying  host  that  flew  between 

The  cloud  and  the  water  no  more  is  seen  ; 

Flake  after  flake 

At  rest  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


SNOW. —  A   WINTER   SKETCH. 

The  blessed  morn  has  come  again  ; 

The  early  gray 
Taps  at  the  slumberer's  window-pane, 

And  seems  to  say, 
Break,  break  from  the  enchanter's  chain, 

Away,    away  ! 

'T  is  winter,  yet  there  is  no  sound 

Along  the  air 
Of  winds  along  their  battle-ground  ; 

But  gently  there 
The  snow  is  falling,  —  all  around 

How  fair,  how  fair  ! 

RALPH  HOYT. 


SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments  shaken, 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
Silent  and  soft  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 

Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

This  is  the  poem  of  the  air, 

Slowly  in  silent  syllables  recorded  ; 

This  is  the  secret  of  despair, 

Long  in  its  cloudy  bosom  hoarded, 

Now  whispered  and  revealed 

To  wood  and  field. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


A   SNOW-STORM. 

SCENE   IN    A    VERMONT   WINTER 
I. 

'T  is  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time, 

As  cold  as  it  ever  can  be  ; 
The  roar  of  the  blast  is  heard  like  the  chime 

Of  the  Avaves  on  an  angry  sea. 


i=r 


& 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


321 


ft 


The  moon  is  full  ;  but  her  silver  light 
The  storm  dashes  out  with  its  wings  to-night  ; 
And  over  the  sky  from  south  to  north 
Not  a  star  is  seen,  as  the  wind  comes  forth 
In  the  strength  of  a  mighty  glee. 


n. 


■  all  day 


All  day  had  the  snow  come  down, 

As  it  never  came  down  before  ; 
And  over  the  hills,  at  sunset,  lay 

Some  two  or  three  feet,  or  more  ; 
The  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of  stone  ; 
The  windows  blocked  and  the  well-curbs  gone  ; 
The  haystack  had  grown  to  a  mountain  lift, 
And  the  wood-pile  looked  like  a  monster  drift, 

As  it  lay  by  the  farmer's  door. 

The  night  sets  in  on  a  world  of  snow, 
While  the  air  grows  sharp  and  chill, 

And  the  warning  roar  of  a  fearful  blow 
Is  heard  on  the  distant  hill ; 

And  the  norther,  see  !  on  the  mountain  peak 

In  his  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and  shriek  ! 

He  shouts  on  the  plain,  ho-ho  !  ho-ho  ! 

He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow, 
And  growls  with  a  savage  will. 

in. 

Such  a  night  as  this  to  be  found  abroad, 

In  the  drifts  and  the  freezing  air, 
Sits  a  shivering  dog,  in  the  field,  by  the  road, 

With  the  snow  in  his  shaggy  hair. 
He  shuts  his  eyes  to  the  wind  and  growls  ; 
He  lifts  his  head,  and  moans  and  howls  ; 
Then  crouching  low,  from  the  cutting  sleet, 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering  feet,  — 

Pray,  what  does  the  dog  do  there  ? 

A  farmer  came  from  the  village  plain,  — 

But  he  lost  the  travelled  way  ; 
And  for  hours  he  trod  with  might  and  main 

A  path  for  his  horse  and  sleigh  ; 
Put  colder  still  the  cold  winds  blew, 
Ami  deeper  still  the  deep  drifts  grew, 
And  his  mare,  a  beautiful  Morgan  brown, 
At  List  in  her  struggles  floundered  down, 

Where  a  log  in  a  hollow  lay. 

In  vain,  with  a  neigh  and  a  frenzied  snort, 
She  plunged  in  the  drifting  snow. 

While  her  master  urged,  till  his  breath  grew  short, 

With  a  word  and  a  gentle  blow  ; 
But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs  were  tight ; 

His  hands  were  numl>  and  had  lost  their  might  ; 
So  he  wallowed  hark  to  his  half-filled  sleigh, 
And  strove  to  shelter  himself  till  day. 
With  his  coat  and  the  buffalo. 
21 


IV. 


He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein, 

To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed  ; 
And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain 

For  help  in  his  master's  need. 
For  a  while  he  strives  with  a  wistful  cry 
To  catch  a  glance  from  his  drowsy  eye, 
And  wags  his  tail  if  the  rude  winds  flap 
The  skirt  of  the  buffalo  over  his  lap, 

And  whines  when  he  takes  no  heed. 


The  wind  goes  down  and  the  storm  is  o'er,  — 

'T  is  the  hour  of  midnight,  past  ; 
The  old  trees  writhe  and  bend  no  more 

In  the  whirl  of  the  rushing  blast. 
The  silent  moon  with  her  peaceful  light 
Looks  down  on  the  hills  with  snow  all  white, 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel's  Hump, 
The  blasted  pine  and  the  ghostly  stump, 

Afar  on  the  plain  are  cast. 

But  cold  and  dead  by  the  hidden  log 

Are  they  who  came  from  the  town,  — 

The  man  in  his  sleigh,  and  his  faithful  dog, 

And  his  beautiful  Morgan  brown,  — 

In  the  wide  snow-desert,  far  and  grand, 

With  his  cap  on  his  head  and  the  reins  in  his 

hand,  — 

The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master's  feet, 

And  the  mare  half  seen  through  the  crusted  sleet, 

Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered  down. 

Charles  Gamace  Eastmax. 


0  WINTER,  WILT  THOU  NEVER  GO? 

0  winter  !  wilt  thou  never,  never  go? 

0  summer  !  but  I  weary  for  thy  coming, 

Longing  once  more  to  hear  the  Luggie  flow, 

And  frugal  bees,  laboriously  humming. 

Now  the  east-wind  diseases  the  infirm, 

And   must  crouch  in  corners  from  rough  weather ; 

Sometimes  a  winter  sunset  is  a  charm,  — 

When  the  fired  clouds,  compacted,  blaze  together, 

Ami  the  large  sun  dips  red  behind  the  hills. 

I,  from  my  window,  ran  behold  this  pleasure  ; 

And  the  eternal  moon  what  time  she  fills 

Her  orb  with  argent,  treading  a  soft  measure, 

With  queenly  motions  of  a  bridal  mood, 

Through  the  white  spaces  of  infinitude. 

David  Gray. 


FROM    "HYMN   ON  THE   SEASONS." 

Tiiksk,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  Cod.     The  rolling  year 


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Is  full  of  thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
"Wide  Hush  the  fields  ;  the  softening  air  is  balm  ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ;  the  forest  smiles  ; 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year  ; 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks, 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves  in  hollow- whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter  awful  thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness  !     On  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Riding  sublime,  thou  bid'st  the  world  adore, 
And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear  !  a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  sucli  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade  ; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole, 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres  ; 
"Works    in  the  secret   deep  ;    shoots,  steaming, 

thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  spring  ; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day  ; 
Feeds  every  creature  ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth  ; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend  !  join  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise 
One  general  song  !     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe   soft,    whose   spirit    in    your  freshness 

breathes  : 
0,  talk  of  him  in  solitary  glooms  ! 
Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 
And  ye  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 
Who  shake  the  astonished  world,   lift   high  to 

heaven 
The  impetuous  song,  and  say   from  whom  you 

rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills  ; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid,  and  profound  ; 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 
Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Sound   his   stupendous  praise,  — whose   greater 

voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 


Soft  roll  your  incense,    herbs,   and  fruits,  and 

flowers, 
In  mingled  clouds  to  him,  —  whose  sun  exalts, 
Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil 

paints. 
Ye  forests  bend,  ye  harvests  wave,  to  him  ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart, 
As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 
Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 
Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams, 
Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 
Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 
Great  source  of  day  !  best  image  here  below 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 
From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 
On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  his  praise. 
The   thunder   rolls  :    be   hushed   the   prostrate 

world  ; 
While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 
Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  ;  ye  mossy  rocks, 
Retain  the  sound  ;  the  broad  responsive  low, 
Ye  valleys,  raise  ;  for  the  great  Shepherd  reigns, 
And  his  unsuflering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake  :  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves  ;  and  when  the  restless  day. 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep), 
Sweetest  of  birds  !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 
The  listening  shades,  and  teach    the  night  his 

praise. 
Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all, 
Crown  the  great  hymn  !  in  swarming  cities  vast, 
Assembled  men  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  bass  ; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 
Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade, 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove, 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay, 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  seasons  as  they  roll. 
For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams, 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east, 
Be  my  tongue  mute, —  my  fancy  paint  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat  ! 

Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 
Rivers  unknown  to  song,  —  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles,  —  't  is  naught  to  me : 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full  ; 
And  where  he  vital  spreads  there  must  be  joy. 
i  When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come, 
i  And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 


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I  cheerful  will  obey  ;  there,  with  new  powers, 

Will  rising  wonders  sing  :  I  cannot  go 

Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 

Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns  ; 

From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 

In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 

Myself  in  him,  in  light  ineffable  ! 

Come,  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  his  praise. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


THE   RAINBOW. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky ; 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man  ; 

And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 

Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

William  Wordsworth. 


NEW  ENGLAND   IN  WINTER. 

FROM    "  SNOW-BOUND." 

The  sun  that  brief  December  day 

Hose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 

And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 

A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

Tin'  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east :  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  fell  tin'  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 
Broughl  in  tin-  wood  from  out  of  doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows  ; 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn  ; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  tin'  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 


The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 

And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow  : 

And  ere  the  early  bed-time  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 

The  morning  broke  without  a  sun  ; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell  ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes ;  strange  domes  and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 

Or  garden  wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road  ; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof ; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 


A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :   "  Boys,  a  path  !  " 
Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  .') 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew  ; 

With  mittened  hands,  ami  caps  drawn  low, 
To  guard  our  nscks  and  cars  from  sncw, 
We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal  :   we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  hick  were  ours 
To  tesl  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  tin'  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  longhead  out, 


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And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about ; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked  ; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 

The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before  ; 

Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 

The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 

No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 

To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 

Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 

A  solitude  made  more  intense 

By  dreary-voiced  elements, 

The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 

The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 

And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 

Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 

No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 

Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 

Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 

We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 

The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 

The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 

Had  been  to  us  companionship, 

And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 

To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 

Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 

The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 

From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 

We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 

Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 

The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 

And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick  ; 

The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 

And  filled  between  with  curious  art 

The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 

We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 

Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 

Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 

Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom  ; 

While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 

Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 

And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 

Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 

The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 

The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed  ; 

While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 

The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 

Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :    "  Under  the  tree, 


When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
There  tJie  witclics  are  making  tea." 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full  ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about. 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed, 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 


A   DROP   OF   DEW. 

See  how  the  orient  dew, 
Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 
Into  the  blowing  roses, 
(Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new 
For  the  clear  region  where  't  was  born) 
Round  in  itself  encloses, 
And  in  its  little  globe's  extent 
Frames,  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 

How  it  the  purple  flower  does  slight, 

Scarce  touching  where  it  lies  ; 
But  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 
Shines  with  a  mournful  light, 
Like  its  own  tear, 
Because  so  long  divided  from  the  sphere  ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  and  unsecure, 

Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure  ; 
Till  the  warm  sun  pities  its  pain, 


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And  to  the  skies  exhales  it  back  again. 

So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray, 
Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  day, 
Could  it  within  the  human  flower  be  seen, 
Remembering  still  its  former  height, 
Shuns  the  sweet  leaves  and  blossoms  green, 
And,  recollecting  its  own  light, 
Does,  in  its  pure  and  circling  thoughts,  express 
The  greater  heaven  in  a  heaven  less. 
In  how  coy  a  figure  wound, 
Every  way  it  turns  away  ; 
So  the  world  excluding  round, 
Yet  receiving  in  the  day. 
Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above  ; 
Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 
How  loose  and  easy  hence  to  go  ! 
How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend  ! 
Moving  but  on  a  point  below, 
It  all  about  does  upwards  bend. 
Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  distil, 
White  and  entire,  although  congealed  and  chill,  — 
Congealed  on  earth,  but  does,  dissolving,  run 
Into  the  glories  of  the  Almighty  sun. 

ANDREW  MARVELL. 


NATURE. 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I  come  by, 
Because  my  feet  find  measure  with  its  call ; 
The  birdsknow  when  the  friend  they  love  is  nigh, 
For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great  and  small. 
The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hillside  grows 
Expects  me  there  when  springits  bloom  has  given  ; 
And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wanderings  knows, 
And  e'en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  heaven  ; 
For  he  who  with  his  Maker  walks  aright, 
Shall  be  their  lord  as  Adam  was  before  ; 
His  ear  shall  catch  each  sound  with  new  delight, 
Each  object  wear  the  dress  that  then  it  wore  ; 
And  he,  as  when  erect  in  soul  he  stood, 
Hear  from  his  Father's  lips  that  all  is  good. 

Jones  Very. 


UNDER  THE   GREENWOOD    TREE. 


AS   YOU    LIKF.    IT. 


Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  Bweel  bird's  throat, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 


Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  • 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaqtjes.  I  '11  give  you  a  verse  to   this  note, 
that  I  made  yesterday  in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Amiens.  And  I  '11  sing  it. 
Jaq.  Thus  it  goes  :  — 

If  it  do  come  to  pass, 

That  any  man  turn  ass, 

Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 

A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame  •■ 

Here  shall  he  see 

Gross  fools  as  he, 
An  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

Ami.  What 's  that  "  ducdame  "  ? 

Jaq.  'Tis  a   Greek   invocation,  to  call  fools 

into  a  circle.    I  '11  go  sleep,  if  I  can  ;  if  I  cannot, 

I  '11  rail  against  all  the  first-born  of  Egypt, 

Shakespeare. 


THE   GREENWOOD. 

0,  when  't  is  summer  weather, 

And  the  yellow  bee,  with  fairy  sound, 

The  waters  clear  is  humming  round, 

And  the  cuckoo  sings  unseen, 

And  the  leaves  are  waving  green,  — 

0,  then  't  is  sweet, 

In  some  retreat, 
To  hear  the  murmuring  dove, 
With  those  whom  on  earth  alone  we  love, 
And  to  wind  through  the  greenwood  together. 

But  when  't  is  winter  weather, 

And  crosses  grieve, 

And  friends  deceive, 

And  rain  and  sleet 

The  lattice  beat,  — 

O,  then  't  is  sweet 

To  sit  and  sing 
Of  the  friends  with  whom,  in  the  days  of  spring, 
We  roamed  through  the  greenwood  together. 

WILLIAM  I.1SLH   BOWLES. 


RETIREMENT. 

INSCRIPTION    IN    A    HERMITAGE. 

Beneath  this  stony  roof  reclined, 

I  soothe  to  peace  my  pensive  mind  ; 
And  while,  to  shade  my  lowly  cave, 
Embowering  elms  their  umbrage  wave, 


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And  while  the  maple  dish  is  mine,  — ■ 
The  beechen  cup,  unstained  with  wine,  — 
I  scorn  the  gay  licentious  crowd, 
Nor  heed  the  toys  that  deck  the  proud. 

Within  my  limits,  lone  and  still, 
The  blackbird  pipes  in  artless  trill  ; 
Fast  by  my  couch,  congenial  guest, 
The  wren  has  wove  her  mossy  nest ; 
From  busy  scenes  and  brighter  skies, 
To  lurk  with  innocence,  she  flies, 
Here  hopes  in  safe  repose  to  dwell, 
Nor  aught  suspects  the  sylvan  cell. 

At  morn  I  take  my  customed  round, 
To  mark  how  buds  yon  shrubby  mound, 
And  every  opening  primrose  count, 
That  trimly  paints  my  blooming  mount ; 
Or  o'er  the  sculptures,  quaint  and  rude, 
That  grace  my  gloomy  solitude, 
I  teach  in  winding  wreaths  to  stray 
Fantastic  ivy's  gadding  spray. 

At  eve,  within  yon  studious  nook, 

I  ope  my  brass-embossed  book, 

Portrayed  with  many  a  holy  deed 

Of  martyrs,  crowned  with  heavenly  meed. 

Then,  as  my  taper  waxes  dim, 

Chant,  ere  I  sleep,  my  measured  hymn, 

And,  at  the  close,  the  gleams  behold 

Of  parting  wings,  be-dropt  with  gold. 

While  such  pure  joys  my  bliss  create, 
Who  but  would  smile  at  guilty  state  ? 
Who  but  would  wish  his  holy  lot 
In  calm  oblivion's  humble  grot  ? 
Who  but  would  cast  his  pomp  away, 
To  take  my  staff,  and  amice  gray  ; 
And  to  the  world's  tumultuous  stage 
Prefer  the  blameless  hermitage  ? 

THOMAS  WARTON. 


COME  TO  THESE  SCENES   OF  PEACE. 

Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace, 
Where,  to  rivers  murmuring, 
The  sweet  birds  all  the  summer  sing, 
Where  cares  and  toil  and  sadness  cease  ! 
Stranger,  does  thy  heart  deplore 
Friends  whom  thou  wilt  see  no  more  ? 
Does  thy  wounded  spirit  prove 
Pangs  of  hopeless,  severed  love  ? 
Thee  the  stream  that  gushes  clear, 
Thee  the  birds  that  carol  near, 
Shall  soothe,  as  silent  thou  dost  lie 
And  dream  of  their  wild  lullaby  ; 
Come  to  bless  thest;  scenes  of  peace, 
Where  cares  and  toil  and  sadness  cease. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


SEE,    0   SEE' 

See,  0  see  ! 

How  every  tree, 

Every  bower, 

Every  flower, 
A  new  life  gives  to  others'  joys  ; 

While  that  I 

Grief-stricken  lie, 

Nor  can  meet 

With  any  sweet 
But  what  faster  mine  destroys. 
What  are  all  the  senses'  pleasures 
When  the  mind  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

Hear,  0  hear ! 

How  sweet  and  clear 

The  nightingale 

And  water's  fall 
In  concert  join  for  others'  ear  ; 

While  to  me, 

For  harmony, 

Every  air 

Echoes  despair, 

And  every  drop  provokes  a  tear. 

What  are  all  the  senses'  pleasures 

When  the  soul  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

Lord  Bristol, 


DOVER   CLIFF. 

FROM    "  KING    LEAR." 

Come  on,    sir  ;    here 's   the   place  :  stand  still. 

How  fearful 
And  dizzy  't  is,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low  ! 
The  crows  and  choughs  that  wing  the  midway  air 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles  :   half-way  down 
Hangs   one   that   gathers   samphire,  —  dreadful 

trade  ! 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head  : 
The  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
Appear  like  mice  ;  and  yon  tall  anchoring  bark, 
Diminished  to  her  cock  ;  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight  ;  the  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumbered  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high.  —  I  '11  look  no  more  ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong.  Shakespeare. 


THE   OCEAN. 

SONNET. 

The  ocean  at  the  bidding  of  the  moon 
Forever  changes  with  his  restless  tide  : 
Flung  shoreward  now,  to  be  regathered  soon 
With  kingly  pauses  of  reluctant  pride, 


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And  semblance  of  return.     Anon  from  home 

He  issues  forth  anew,  high  ridged  and  free,  — 

The  gentlest  murmur  of  his  seething  foam 

Like  armies  whispering  where  great  echoes  be. 

O,  leave  me  here  upon  this  beach  to  rove, 

Mute  listener  to  that  sound  so  grand  and  lone  ! 

A  glorious   sound,    deep   drawn,    and   strongly 

thrown, 

And  reaching  those  on  mountain  heights  above, 

To  British  ears,  (as  who  shall  scorn  to  own  '!) 

A  tutelar  fond  voice,  a  saviour  tone  of  love. 

Charles  Tennyson. 


SONG   OF   THE   BROOK. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern  : 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  1  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

CTpon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  (low 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots  : 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ! 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses  ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


GRONGAR   HILL. 

[The  Vale  of  the  Towy  embraces,  in  its  winding  course  of  fif- 
teen miles,  some  of  the  loveliest  scenery  of  South  Wales.  If  it  be 
less  cultivated  than  the  Vale  of  Usk,  its  woodland  views  are  more 
romantic  and  frequent.  The  neighborhood  is  historic  and  poetic 
ground.  From  Grongar  Hill  the  eye  discovers  traces  of  a  Roman 
Camp ;  Golden  Grove,  the  home  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  is  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  river  ;  Merlin's  chair  recalls  Spenser  ;  and  a 
farm-house  near  the  foot  of  Llangumnor  Hill  brings  back  the  mem- 
ory of  its  once  genial  occupant,  Richard  Steele.  Spenser  places 
the  cave  of  Merlin  among  the  dark  woods  of  Dinevawr.] 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  ejre  ! 
Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man, 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 
"While  the  yellow  linnet  sings, 
Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale,  — 
Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 
Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse. 
Now,  while  Phoebus,  riding  high, 
Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky, 
Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song,  — 
Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong; 
Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 
Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells  ; 
Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 
For  the  modest  Muses  made, 
So  oft  I  have,   the  evening  still, 
At  the  fountain  of  a  rib., 
Sat  upon  a  flowery  bed 
With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 
"While  strayed  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 
Over  mead  and  over  wood, 
From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 
Till  Contemplation  had  hei  fill. 
About  his  checkered  sides  I  wind, 


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And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves  and  grottos  where  I  lay, 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day. 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal. 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate  ! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height, 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise. 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads  ; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still. 
And  sinks  the  newly  risen  hill. 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
What  a  landscape  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapors  intervene  ; 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  Nature  show 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow  ! 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies  ; 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires  ; 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain  dreads, 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew, 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs  ; 
And  beyond,  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  cpieen  of  love  ! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye ; 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood  : 
His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood  ; 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below  ; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps  ; 
So  both,  a  safety  from  the  wind 
In  mutual  dependence  find. 
'T  is  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode  ; 
'T  is  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad  ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds  ; 
And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 
Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds  ; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  fall 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary,  mouldered  wall ; 
Yet  Time  has  seen  —  that  lifts  the  low 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow  — 


Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state. 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  ! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day, 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers,  how  they  run 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow,  — 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 
Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep  ! 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view  ! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow  ; 
The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low  ; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ; 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower, 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bowrer  ; 
The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm,  — 
Each  gives  each  a  double  charm, 
As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side, 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide, 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie  ; 
What  streaks  of  meadow  cross  the  eye  ! 
A  step,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream, 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem  ; 
So  we  mistake  the  Future's  face, 
Eyed  through  Hope's  deluding  glass  ; 
As  yon  summits,  soft  and  fair, 
Clad  in  colors  of  the  air, 
Which  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear  ; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way,  — 
The  present 's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

0,  may  I  with  myself  agree, 
And  never  covet  what  I  see  ; 
Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid  ; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul. 
'T  is  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air, 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain  turf  I  lie  ; 
While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings, 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings  ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep  ; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep ; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly, 


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And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts  ;  be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill  ; 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 
In  vain  you  search  ;  she  is  not  here  ! 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care  ! 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads  and  niountain-lieads, 
Along  with  Pleasure,  —  close  allied, 
Ever  by  each  other's  side  ; 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill, 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still 
"Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

JOHN  DYER. 


AFTON   WATER. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I  'II  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise  ; 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock -dove  whose  echo  resounds  through 
the  glen, 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  for- 
bear, 

I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  mark  I'd  with  the  coursesof  clearwinding  rills  ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow  ; 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides  ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As,  gathering  sweet  flowerets,  she  stems  thy  clear 
wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   SHADED   WATER. 

WHEN  that  my  mood  is  Bad,  ami  in  (he  noise 

And  bustle  of  the  crowd  1  feel  rebukej 
I  turn  my  footsteps  from  its  hollow  joya 

And  sit  me  down  beside  this  little  brook  ; 


The  waters  have  a  music  to  mine  ear 
It  glads  me  much  to  hear. 

It  is  a  quiet  glen,  as  you  may  see, 

Shut  in  from  all  intrusion  by  the  trees, 

That  spread  their  giant  branches,  broad  and  free, 
The  silent  growth  of  many  centuries  ; 

And  make  a  hallowed  time  for  hapless  moods, 

A  sabbath  of  the  woods. 

Few  know  its  quiet  shelter,  — none,  like  me, 
Do  seek  it  out  with  such  a  fond  desire, 

Poring  in  idlesse  mood  on  flower  and  tree, 

And  listening  as  the  voiceless  leaves  respire,  — 

When  the  far-travelling  breeze,  done  wandering, 

Rests  here  his  weary  wing. 

And  all  the  day,  with  fancies  ever  new, 

And  sweet  companions  from  their  boundless 
store, 

Of  merry  elves  bespangled  all  with  dew, 
Fantastic  creatures  of  the  old-time  lore, 

Watching  their  wild  but  unobtrusive  play, 

I  fling  the  hours  away. 

A  gracious  couch  —  the  root  of  an  old  oak 
Whose  branches  yield  it  moss  and  canopy  — 

Is  mine,  and,  so  it  be  from  woodman's  stroke 
Secure,  shall  never  be  resigned  by  me  ; 

It  hangs  above  the  stream  that  idly  flies, 

Heedless  of  any  eyes. 

There,  with  eye  sometimes  shut,  but  upward  bent, 
Sweetly  I  muse  through  many  a  quiet  hour, 

While  every  sense  on  earnest  mission  sent, 
Returns,  thought  laden,  back  with  bloom  and 
flower 

Pursuing,  though  rebuked  by  those  who  moil, 

A  profitable  toil. 

And  still  the  waters  trickling  at  my  feet 
Wind  on  their  way  with  gentlest  melody, 

Yielding  sweet  music,  which  the  leaves  repeat, 
Above  them,  to  the  gay  breeze  gliding  by,  — 

Yet  not  so  rudely  as  to  send  one  sound 

Through  the  thick  copse  around. 

Sometimes  a  brighter  cloud  than  all  the  rest 
Hangs  o'er  the  archway  opening  through  the 
trees, 

Breaking  the  spell  that,  like  a  slumber,  pressed 
On  my  worn  spirit  its  sweet  luxuries,  — 

And  with  awakened  vision  upward  bent, 

I  watch  the  firmament. 

How  like  —  its  sure  and  undisturbed  retreat, 
Life's  sanctuary  at  last,  secure  from  storm  — 

To  the  pure  waters  trickling  at  mv  feet 

The  bending  trees  that  overshade  my  form  ! 

So  far  as  sweetest  things  of  earth  may  seem 

Like  those  of  which  we  dream. 


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Such,  to  my  mind,  is  the  philosophy 

The  young  bird  teaches,  who,  with  sudden  flight, 

Sails  far  into  the  blue  that  spreads  on  high, 
Until  I  lose  him  from  my  straining  sight,  — 

With  a  most  lofty  discontent  to  fly, 

Upward,  from  earth  to  sky. 

William  Gilmore  Simms. 


YARROW   UNVISITED. 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 

The  mazy  Forth  unravelled  ; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 

And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled  ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 

Then  said  my  "winsome  Marrow," 
"  Whate'er  betide,  we  '11  turn  aside, 

And  see  the  braes  of  Yarrow." 

"Let  YaiTow  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 
Go  back  to  Yarrow  ;  't  is  their  own,  — 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling  ! 
On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  ! 
But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

"  There  's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 
And  Dryborough,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 

The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus  ; 
There  's  pleasant  Teviot-dale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow  : 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

' '  What 's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare, 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under  ? 
There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere, 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 
Strange  words  they  seemed,  of  slight  and  scorn ; 

My  true-love  sighed  for  sorrow, 
And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

"  0,  green,"  said  I,  "are  Yarrow's  holms, 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  ! 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path  and  open  strath 

We  '11  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 

Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

"  Let  beeves  and  homebred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn  Mill  meadow  ; 

The  swan  still  on  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 


We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go 

To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow  ; 
Enough,  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 

There  's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  ; 

Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it  ? 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We  '11  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow  ! 
For  when  we  're  there,  although  't  is  fair, 

'T  will  be  another  Yarrow  ! 

"If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come, 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly,  — 
Should  we  be  loath  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy,  — 
Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'T  will  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 
That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show,  — 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  !  " 

William  Wordsworth. 


YARROW  VISITED. 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow  ?  —  This  the  stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherished, 
So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perished  !■ 
0  that  some  minstrel's  harp  were  near, 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 
And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  ! 

Yet  why  ?  —  a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontrolled  meanderings  ; 
Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed  in  all  my  wanderings. 
And,  through  her  depths,  St.  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted  ; 
For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 
Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused,  — 

A  tender,  hazy  brightness  ; 
Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection  ; 
Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding  ? 
His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding ; 


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And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 
Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 

The  water-wraith  ascended  thrice, 
And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  lay  that  sings 

The  haunts  of  happy  lovers,  — 
The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers  ; 
And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 

That  paints,  hy  strength  of  sorrow, 
The  unconquerable  strength  of  love  : 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 
Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation. 
Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread,  — 

A  softness  still  and  holy, 
The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 
With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature  ; 
And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves, 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary  ! 
The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  towers, 

Renowned  in  border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in  ; 
For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength, 

And  age  to  wear  away  in  ! 
Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 
Of  tender  thoughts,  that  nestle  there,  — 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day, 

The  wildwood  fruits  to  gather, 
And  on  my  truedove's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather  ! 
And  what  if  I  inwreathed  my  own  ! 

'T  were  no  offence  to  reason  ; 
The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see,  —  but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee  ; 
A  ray  of  fancy  still  survives,  — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee! 
Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  cour.se  of  lively  pleasure  ; 
And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe, 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 


The  vapors  linger  round  the  heights  ; 

They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish  ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine,  — 

Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 

Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow, 
Will  dwell  with  me,  to  heighten  joy, 

And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE   BUGLE. 

FROM    "THE    PRINCESS." 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  hark  !  0  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ■ 
0  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


THE   RHINE. 


CHILDE   HAROLD. 


The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  hear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  1  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  witli  me. 

And  peasant  girls  with  deep-blue  eyes, 
And  hands  which  offer  early  (lowers, 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 
Above,  the  frequenl  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 
And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 


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And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine,  — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

[  send  the  lilies  given  to  me  : 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch 
I  know  that  they  must  withered  be, 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such  ; 
For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear, 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
ind  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 

When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh, 
A.nd  know'st  them  gathered  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine  ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  : 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here  ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  ? 

Byron. 


ON   THE   RHINE. 

'T  was   morn,    and    beautiful    the    mountain's 
brow  — ■ 
Hung  with  the  clusters  of  the  bending  vine  — 
Shone  in  the  early  light,  when  on  the  Rhine 
We  sailed  and  heard  the  waters  round  the  prow 
In  murmurs  parting  ;  varying  as  we  go, 
Rocks  after  rocks  come  forward  and  retire, 
As  some  gray  convent  wall  or  sunlit  spire 
Starts  up  along  the  banks,  unfolding  slow. 
Here  castles,  like  the  prisons  of  despair, 

Frown  as  we  pass  !  —  there,  on  the  vineyard's 

side, 
The    bursting   sunshine   pours   its   streaming 
tide  ; 
While  Grief,  forgetful  amid  scenes  so  fair, 
Counts  not  the  hours  of  a  long  summer's  day, 
Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  away. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


ALPINE  HEIGHTS. 

On  Alpine  heights  the  love  of  God  is  shed  ; 
He  paints  the  morning  red, 
The  flowerets  white  and  blue, 
And  feeds  them  with  his  dew. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 


On  Alpine  heights,  o'er  many  a  fragrant  heath, 
The  loveliest  breezes  breathe  ; 
So  free  and  pure  the  air, 
His  breath  seems  floating  there. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  beneath  his  mild  blue  eye, 

Still  vales  and  meadows  lie  ; 

The  soaring  glacier's  ice 

Gleams  like  a  paradise. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

Down  Alpine  heights  the  silvery  streamlets  flow  ; 
There  the  bold  chamois  go  ; 
On  giddy  crags  they  stand, 
And  drink  from  his  own  hand. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  in  troops  all  white  as  snow, 
The  sheep  and  wild  goats  go  ; 
There,  in  the  solitude, 
He  fills  their  hearts  with  food. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights  the  herdsman  tends  his  herd  ; 

His  Shepherd  is  the  Lord  ; 

For  he  who  feeds  the  sheep 

Will  sure  his  offspring  keep. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

Krummacher  (German).    Translation 
of  Charles  T.  Brooks. 


THE   GREAT   ST.    BERNARD. 

Night  was  again  descending,  when  my  mule, 
That  all  day  long  had  climbed  among  the  clouds, 
Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 
Let  down  from  heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 
Stopped,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door 
So  near  the  summit  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard  ; 
That  door  which  ever  on  its  hinges  moved 
To  them  that  knocked,  and  nightly  sends  abroad 
Ministering  spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch, 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me, 
All  meekness,  gentleness,  though  large  of  limb  ; 
And  a  lay -brother  of  the  Hospital, 
Who,  as  we  toiled  below,  had  heard  by  fits 
The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear, 
Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand, 
While  I  alighted. 

On  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church, 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity  ; 
The  vesper-bell,  for  't  was  the  vesper-hour, 
Duly  proclaiming  through  the  wilderness, 
"All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work, 
Stop  for  an  instant,  —  move  your  lips  in  prayer  ! " 
And  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale, 


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If  dale  it  might  be  called  so  near  to  heaven, 

A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leaped  up, 

Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow  ; 

A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky, 

On  its  dead  surface  glimmering.     'T  was  a  scene 

Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind, 

As  though  all  worldly  ties  were  now  dissolved  ;  — 

And  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought, 

To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 

Under  a  beetling  cliff  stood  half  in  shadow 

A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead, 

For  such  as,  having  wandered  from  their  way, 

Had  perished  miserably.     Side  by  side, 

"Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company 

All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them  ; 

Their  features  full  of  life,  yet  motionless 

In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 

Though  the  barred   windows,  barred  against  the 

wolf, 
Are  always  open  !  SAMUEL  RoGERS. 


THE   RECOLLECTION. 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead, 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise  ! 
Up,  do  thy  wonted  work  !  come,  trace 
The  epitaph  of  glory  fled, 
For  now  the  earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  heaven's  brow. 

We  wandered  to  the  pine  forest 

That  skirts  the  ocean's  foam  ; 
Tlie  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The.  smile  of  Heaven  lay  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies, 
Which  scattered  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise  ! 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced, — 
And  SOOthed  by  every  azure  breath 

That  under  heaven  is  blown 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 
As  tender  as  its  own  : 

Now  all  the  tr tops  lay  asleep 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 

As  still   as   in    til.'   silent    dee], 

The  ocean-woods  may  be. 


How  calm  it  was  !  —  the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound, 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  cpiietness  ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seemed  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  wide  mountain  waste 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet 

A  magic  circle  traced, 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling  silent  life  ; 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife  ;  — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
Was  one  fair  Form  that  filled  vrith  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough  ; 
Each  seemed  as  't  were  a  little  sky 

Gulfed  in  a  world  below  ; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night 

And  purer  than  the  day,  — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighboring  lawn, 

And  through  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green  : 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  Elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 

Like  one  beloved,  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest ; 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unweleoine  thought 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
—  Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  ijreen, 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen  ! 

Percy  iiysshk  shblley. 


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TO   THE   WEST-WIND. 

0  wild  west- wind,  thou  breath  of  autumn's  be- 

ing, 
Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 
Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  0  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 
The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 
Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill  : 
Wild  spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  ;  hear,  0  hear  ! 

Thou  on  whose   stream,    mid  the   steep   sky's 

commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and 

ocean, 
Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  ;  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 
Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.    Thou  dirge 
Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 
Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain  and  fire  and  hail  will  burst :  0  hear  ! 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams 
Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 
All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 
So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !  Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 
Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean  know 
Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble,  and  despoil  themselves  :  0  hear  ! 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear  ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 
The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  0  uncontrollable  !  If  even 

1  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  the  skyey  speed 


Scarce  seemed  a  vision,  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 

0,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 

I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !  I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 

One  too  like  thee  :  tameless  and  swift  and  proud. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 

The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 

My  spirit  !  be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 

Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth  ; 

And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     0  wind, 

If  winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


WHAT   THE   WINDS    BRING. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  cold  ? 

The  north-wind,  Freddy,  and  all  the  snow ; 
And  the  sheep  will  scamper  into  the  fold 

When  the  north  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  heat  ? 

The  south-wind,  Katy ;  and  corn  will  grow, 
And  peaches  redden  for  you  to  eat, 

When  the  south  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  rain  ? 

The  east-wind,  Arty  ;  and  farmers  know 
That  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane 

When  the  east  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  flowers  ? 

The  west-wind,  Bessy  ;  and  soft  and  low 

The  birdies  sing  in  the  summer  hours 

When  the  west  begins  to  blow. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


A  VIEW  ACROSS   THE  ROMAN 
CAMPAGNA. 

1861. 


Over  the  dumb  campagna-sea, 

Out  in  the  offing  through  mist  and  rain, 
St.  Peter's  Church  heaves  silently 

Like  a  mighty  ship  in  pain, 

Facing  the  tempest  with  struggle  and  strain. 


£S-~ 


--EP 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


335 


ft 


n. 

Motionless  waifs  of  ruined  towers, 
Soundless  breakers  of  desolate  land  ! 

The  sullen  surf  of  the  mist  devours 

That  mountain-range  upon  either  hand, 
Eaten  away  from  its  outline  grand. 

in. 

And  over  the  dumb  campagna-sea 

Where  the  ship  of  the  Church  heaves  on  to  wreck, 

Alone  and  silent  as  God  must  be 

The  Christ  walks  !  —  Ay,  but  Peter's  neck 
Is  stiff  to  turn  on  the  foundering  deck. 

IV. 

Peter,  Peter,  if  such  be  thy  name, 

Now  leave  the  ship  for  another  to  steer, 

And  proving  thy  faith  evermore  the  same 
Come  forth,  tread  out  through  the  dark  and  drear, 
Since  He  who  walks  on  the  sea  is  here  ! 


Peter,  Peter  !  —  he  does  not  speak,  — 
He  is  not  as  rash  as  in  old  Galilee. 

Safer  a  ship,  though  it  toss  and  leak, 
Than  a  reeling  foot  on  a  rolling  sea ! 
—  And  he 's  got  to  be  round  in  the  girth,  thinks 
he. 

VI. 

Peter,  Peter  !  — he  does  not  stir,  — 
His  nets  are  heavy  with  silver  fish  : 

He  reckons  his  gains,  and  is  keen  to  infer, 

.  .  "The  broil  on  the  shore,  if  the  Lord  should 

wish,  — 
But  the  sturgeon  goes  to  the  Caesar's  dish." 

VII. 

Peter,  Peter,  thou  fisher  of  men, 

Fisher  of  fish  wouldst  thou  live  instead, — 

Haggling  for  pence  with  the  other  Ten, 
Cheating  the  market  at  so  much  a  head, 
Griping  the  bag  of  the  traitor  dead? 

VIII. 

At  the  triple  crow  of  the  Gallic  cock 

Thou  weep'st  not,  thou,  though  thine  eyes  be 
dazed  : 
What  bird  comes  next  in  the  tempest  shock  ? 
.  .  Vultures !    See,  —  as  when  Romulus  gazed, 
To  inaugurate  Pome  for  a  world  amazed ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


Fast  frozen,  and  among  huge  blocks  of  ice 
That  in  their  long  career  had  stopt  midway  ; 
At  length,  unchecked,  unbidden,  he  stood  still, 
And  all  his  bells  were  muffled.    Then  my  guide, 
Lowering  his  voice,  addressed  me  :    ' '  Through 

this  chasm 
On,  and  say  nothing,  —  for  a  word,  a  breath, 
Stirring  the  air,  may  loosen  and  bring  down 
A  winter's  snow,  —  enough  to  overwhelm 
The  horse  and  foot  that,  night  and  day,  defiled 
Along  this  path  to  conquer  at  Marengo. 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


THE   DESCENT. 

....  My  mule  refreshed,  Ins  bells 
Jingled  once  more,  the  signal  l"  depart, 
And  we  sel  out  in  the  gray  light  of  dawn, 
Descending  rapidly,  —  by  waterfalls 


VIEW   FROM   THE   ETJGANEAN   HILLS, 
NORTH    ITALY. 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 

Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track  ; 

Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky, 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 

And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 

Riving  sail  and  cord  and  jdank 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep  ; 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will, 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave, 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  agony  : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 

My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 

—  Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 

1  stood  listening  to  the  paean 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical  : 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky, 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain 


te- 


-ff 


a 


336 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


a 


4 


Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain 
Gleam  above  the  sunlight  -woods, 
As  in  silent  multitudes 
On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 
Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail  ; 
And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 
Till  all  is  bright  and  clear  and  still 
Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair  ; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes, 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice,  lies,  — 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  city  !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen  ; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne  among  the  waves, 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 
Save  where  many  a  palace-gate, 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 


Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 
Lead  a  rapid  mask  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Noon  descends  around  me  now  : 

'T  is  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 

When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 

Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 

Or  an  air-dissolved  star 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath  ;  the  leaves  unsodden 

Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning- winged  feet, 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines 

Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness  ; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air  ;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded  ; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun  ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song,  — 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky  ; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

Leading  the  infantine  moon 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs  : 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

Mid  remembered  agonies, 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony  ; 


6 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


337 


a 


Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf  ;  even  now,  perhaps, 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

With  folding  winds  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 

In  a  dell  mid  lawny  hills 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

—  We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

Tin-  polluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves  ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies  ; 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood. 

They,  not  it,  would  change  ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again  ! 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye  ; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 
'T  is  the  clime  of  the  East ;  't  is  the  land  of  the 

Sun,  — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have 

done  ? 
0,  wild  as  the  accents  of  lover's  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear  and  the  tales 

which  they  tell !  byron. 


THE   ORIENT. 

FROM    "THE    BRIDE   OF   ABYD0S." 

KNOW  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their 

clime, 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the 

turtle, 
Now  mi  ill  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever 

shine  : 
Where  the  lighl  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed  with 

perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom  ! 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  an'  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  Qever  is  mute, 
W  here  the  tintsofthecarth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
22 


SYRIA. 

FROM    "  PARADISE   AND   THE    PERI." 

Now,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses 
Softly  the  light  of  eve  reposes, 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon  ; 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet, 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

To  one  who  looked  from  upper  air 

O'er  all  the  enchanted  regions  there, 

How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow, 

The  life,  how  sparkling  from  below  ! 

Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 

Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks, 

More  golden  where  the  sunlight  falls  ;  — 

Gay  lizards,  glittering  on  the  walls 

Of  ruined  shrines,  busy  and  bright 

As  they  were  all  alive  with  light ; 

And,  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks 

Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks, 

With  their  rich  restless  wings,  that  gleam 

Variously  in  the  crimson  beam 

Of  the  warm  west,  —  as  if  inlaid 

With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 

Of  tearless  rainbows,  such  as  span 

The  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan  ! 

And  then,  the  mingling  sounds  that  come, 

Of  shepherd's  ancient  reed,  with  hum 

Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Banqueting  through  the  flowery  vales  ; — 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine, 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales  ! 

THOMAS   MOORE. 


THE   VALE   OF   CASHMERE. 

FROM    "THE    LIGHT   01'   THE    HAREM." 

WHO  lias  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere, 
With  its  roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever 
gave, 


0 


a- 


a 


338 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


-•when  mellowly 


Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 
As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over  their 
wave  ? 

0,  to  see  it  at  sunset,  —when  warm  o'er  the  lake 
Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws, 
Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  lingering  to 
take 
A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere   she 
goes  !  — 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleam- 
ing half  shown, 
And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its 

own. 
Here  the  music  of  prayer  from  a  minaret  swells, 
Here  the  Magian  his  urn  full  of  perfume  is 
swinging, 
And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 
Round  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is 
ringing. 
Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight, 

shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and  shrines  ; 
When  the  waterfalls  gleam  like  a  quick  fall  of 

stars, 
And   the   nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle  of 

Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool  shining  walks  where  the  young 

people  meet. 
Or  at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awakes  i 
A  new  wonder  each  minute  as  slowly  it  breaks, 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  called  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  they  were  just  born  of  the 

sun. 
When  the  spirit  of  fragrance  is  up  with  the  day, 
From  his  harem  of  night-flowers  stealing  away  ; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  wooes  like  a 

lover 
The  young  aspen-trees  till  they  tremble  all  over. 
When  the  east  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  first 
hopes, 
And  day,  with  its  banner  of  radiance  unfurled, 
Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that 
opes, 
Sublime,  from  that  valley  of  bliss  to  the  world  ! 

THOMAS  MOOR.fi. 


NATURE'S   CHAIN. 

FROM    THE    "ESSAY    ON   MAN." 

Look  round  our  world ;  behold  the  chain  of  love 
Combining  all  below  and  all  above, 
See  plastic  nature  working  to  this  end, 
The  single  atoms  each  to  other  tend, 
Attract,  attracted  to,  the  next  in  place, 
Formed  and  impelled  its  neighbor  to  embrace. 
See  matter  next,  with  various  life  endued, 


Press  to  one  centre  still,  the  general  good. 

See  dying  vegetables  life  sustain, 

.See  life  dissolving  vegetate  again  ; 

All  forms  that  perish  other  forms  supply 

(By  turns  we  catch  the  vital  breath,  and  die) ; 

Like  bubbles  on  the  sea  of  matter  borne, 

They  rise,  they  break,  and  to  that  sea  return. 

Nothing  is  foreign  ;  parts  relate  to  whole  ; 

One  all-extending,  all-preserving  Soul 

Connects  each  being,  greatest  with  the  least ; 

Made  beast  in  aid  of  man,  and  man  of  beast ; 

All  served,  all  serving  ;  nothing  stands  alone  ; 

The  chain  holds  on,  and  where  it  ends,  unknown. 
Has  God,  thou  fool !  worked  solely  for  thy  good, 

Thy  joy,  thy  pastime,  thy  attire,  thy  food  ? 

Who  for  thy  table  feeds  the  wanton  fawn, 

For  him  as  kindly  spread  the  flowery  lawn. 

Is  it  for  thee  the  lark  ascends  and  sings  ? 

Joy  tunes  his  voice,  joy  elevates  his  wings. 

Is  it  for  thee  the  linnet  pours  his  throat  ? 

Loves  of  his  own  and  raptures  swell  the  note. 

The  bounding  steed  you  pompously  bestride 

Shares  with  his  lord  the  pleasure  and  the  pride. 

Is  thine  alone  the  seed  that  strews  the  plain  ? 

The  birds  of  heaven  shall  vindicate  their  grain. 

Thine  the  full  harvest  of  the  golden  year  ? 

Part  pays,  and  justly,  the  deserving  steer  : 

The  hog  that  ploughs  not,  nor  obeys  thy  call, 
Lives  on  the  labors  of  this  lord  of  all. 

Know,  nature's  children  all  divide  her  care  ; 

!  The  fur  that  warms  a  monarch  warmed  a  bear. 
While  man  exclaims,  "See  all  things  for  my  use  !" 
"  See  man  for  mine  !  "  replies  a  pampered  goose  : 
And  just  as  short  of  reason  he  must  fall 
Who  thinks  all  made  for  one,  not  one  for  all. 

Grant  that  the  powerful  still  the  weak  control ; 
Be  man  the  wit  and  tyrant  of  the  whole  ■ 
Nature  that  tyrant  checks  ;  he  only  knows, 
And  helps,  another  creature's  wants  and  woes. 
Say,  will  the  falcon,  stooping  from  above, 
Smit  with  her  varying  plumage,  spare  the  dove  ? 
Admires  the  jay  the  insect's  gilded  wings  ? 
Or  hears  the  hawk  when  Philomela  sings  ? 
Man  cares  for  all :  to  birds  he  gives  his  woods, 
To  beasts  his  pastures,  and  to  fish  his  floods  ; 
For  some  his  interest  prompts  him  to  provide, 
For  more  his  pleasure,  yet  for  more  his  pride  : 
All  feed  on  one  vain  patron,  and  enjoy 
The  extensive  blessing  of  his  luxury. 
That  very  life  his  learned  hunger  craves, 
He  saves  from  famine,  from  the  savage  saves  ; 
Nay,  feasts  the  animal  he  dooms  his  feast, 
And,  till  he  ends  the  being,  makes  it  blest  ; 
Which  sees  no  more  the  stroke,  or  feels  the  pain, 
Than  favored  man  by  touch  ethereal  slain. 
The  creature  had  his  feast  of  life  before  ; 
Thou  too  must  perish  when  thy  feast  is  o'er  ! 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


!& 


-R- 


POEMS  OF   NATURE. 


339 


THE   LION'S   EIDE. 

(Translation.) 

The  lion  is  the  desert's  king ;  through  his  do- 
main so  wide 

Right  swiftly  and  right  royally  this  night  he 
means  to  ride. 

By  the  sedgy  brink,  where  the  wild  herds  drink, 
close  couches  the  grim  chief ; 

The  trembling  sycamore  above  whispers  with  every 
leaf. 

At  evening,  on  the  Table  Mount,  when  ye  can 

see  no  more 
The  changeful  play  of  signals  gay  ;  when  the  gloom 

is  speckled  o'er 
With  kraal  fires  ;  when  the  Caffre  wends  home 

through  the  lone  karroo  ; 
When  the  boshbok  in  the  thicket  sleeps,  and  by 

the  stream  the  gnu  ; 

Then  bend  your  gaze  across  the  waste,  —  what 

see  ye  ?    The  giraffe, 
Majestic,  stalks  towards  the  lagoon,  the  turbid 

lymph  to  quaff ; 
With  outstretched  neck  and  tongue  adust,  he 

kneels  him  down  to  cool 
His  hot  thirst  with  a  welcome  draught  from  the 

foul  and  brackish  pool. 

A  rustling  sound,  a  roar,  a  bound,  — the  lion  sits 

astride 
Upon  his  giant  courser's  back.     Did  ever  king  so 

ride  ? 
Had  ever  king  a  steed  so  rare,  caparisons  of  state 
To  match  the  dappled  skin  whereon  that  rider  sits 

elate  ? 

In  the  muscles  of  the  neck  his  teeth  are  plunged 
with  ravenous  greed  ; 

His  tawny  mane  is  tossing  nrand  the  withers  of 
the  steed. 

Up  leaping  with  a  hollow  yell  of  anguish  and  sur- 
prise, 

Away,  away,  in  wild  dismay,  the  camel-leopard 
flies. 

His  feet  have  wings  ;  see  how  he  springs  across 
the  moonlit  plain  ! 

As  from  their  sockets  they  would  burst,  his  glaring 
eyeballs  strain  ; 

In  thick  black  streams  of  purling  blood,  full  fast 
his  life  is  fleeting  ; 

The  stillness  ol  I  he  desert  hears  his  heart's  tu- 
multuous beating. 

Tike  the  cloud  that,  through  the  wilderness,  the 

path  of  Israel  traced,  — 
Like  an  airy  phantom,  dull  and  wan,  a  spirit  of 

the  waste,  — 


From  the  sandy  sea  uprising,  as  the  water-spout 

from  ocean, 
A  whirling  cloud  of  dust  keeps  pace  with  the 

courser's  fiery  motion. 

Croaking  companion  of  their  flight,  the  vulture 

whirs  on  high  ; 
Below,  the  terror  of  the  fold,  the  panther  fierce 

and  sly, 
And  hyenas  foul,  round  graves  that  prowl,  j  »in 

in  the  horrid  race  ; 
By  the  footprints  wet  with  gore  and  sweat,  their 

monarch's  course  they  trace. 

They  see  him  on  his  living  throne,  and  quake  witli 

fear,  the  while 
With  claws  of  steel  he  tears  piecemeal  his  cushion's 

painted  pile. 
On  !  on  !  no  pause,  no  rest,  giraffe,  while  life  and 

strength  remain  ! 
The  steed  by  such  a  rider  backed  may  madly  plunge 

in  vain. 

Reeling  upon  the  desert's  verge,  he  falls,  and 

breathes  his  last ; 
The  courser,  stained  with  dust  and  foam,  is  the 

rider's  fell  repast. 
O'er  Madagascar,  eastward  far,  a  faint  flush  is 

descried  :  — 
Thus  nightly,  o'er  his  broad  domain,  the  king  of 

beasts  doth  ride. 

FERDINAND  FREILIGRATH  (German). 


THE   BLOOD    HORSE. 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed, 

Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 

Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone, 

With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known  ; 

Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 

But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within  ! 

His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing, 

And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look,  —  how  round  his  straining  throat 

Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float  ; 

Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins, 

A  nd  the  red  blcod  gallops  through  his  veins. 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 

Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire,— 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself! 


3~ 


-S1 


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340 


POEMS   OF   NATUKE. 


■ft 


He,  who  liatli  no  peer,  was  bom 

Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn  ; 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 

Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab-bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 

Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine  ! 

And  yet,  —  he  was  but  friend  to  one, 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green ; 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day), 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 

Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


LAMBS   AT   PLAY. 

Say,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  felt  and  seen 
Spring's   morning   smiles,    and    soul-enlivening 

green, — 
Say,  did  you  give  the  thrilling  transport  way, 
Did  your  eye  brighten,  when  young  lambs  at  play 
Leaped  o'er  your  path  with  animated  pride, 
Or  gazed  in  merry  clusters  by  your  side  ? 
Ye  who  can  smile  —  to  wisdom  no  disgrace  — 
At  the  arch  meaning  of  a  kitten's  face  ; 
If  spotless  innocence  and  infant  mirth 
Excites  to  praise,  or  gives  reflection  birth  ; 
In  shades  like  these  pursue  your  favorite  joy, 
Midst  nature's  revels,  sports  that  never  cloy. 
A  few  begin  a  short  but  vigorous  race, 
And  indolence,  abashed,  soon  flies  the  place  : 
Thus  challenged  forth,  see  thither,  one  by  one, 
From  every  side,  assembling  playmates  run  ; 
A  thousand  wily  antics  mark  their  stay, 
A  starting  crowd,  impatient  of  delay ; 
Like  the  fond  dove  from  fearful  prison  freed, 
Each  seems  to  say,  "  Come,  let  us  try  our  speed  "  ; 
Away  they  scour,  impetuous,  ardent,  strong, 
The  green  turf  trembling  as  they  bound  along 
Adown  the  slope,  then  up  the  hillock  climb, 
Where  every  mole-hill  is  a  bed  of  thyme, 
Then,  panting,  stop  ;  yet  scarcely  can  refrain, 
A  bird,  a  leaf,  will  set  them  off  again  : 
Or,  if  a  gale  with  strength  unusual  blow, 
Scattering  the  wild-brier  roses  into  snow, 
Their  little  limbs  increasing  efforts  try  ; 
Like  the  torn  flower,  the  fair  assemblage  fly. 
Ah,  fallen  rose  !  sad  emblem  of  their  doom  ; 
Frail  as  thyself,  they  perish  while  they  bloom  ! 

Robert  Bloomfield. 


FOLDING   THE   FLOCKS. 

SHEPHERDS  all,  and  maidens  fair, 
Fold  your  flocks  up  ;  for  the  air 


'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 

Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 

See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 

Every  little  flower  that  is  ; 

Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 

Like  a  string  of  crystal  beads. 

See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling 

And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 

The  dead  night  from  underground ; 

At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound, 

Damps  and  vapors,  fly  apace, 

And  hover  o'er  the  smiling  face 

Of  these  pastures  ;  where  they  come, 

Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 

Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 

Every  one  his  loved  flock  ; 

And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 

From  the  mountain,  and  ere  day, 

Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away  ; 

Or  the  crafty,  thievish  fox, 

Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  secure  yourself  from  these, 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease  ; 

So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  deserve  your  master's  love. 

Now,  good  night !  may  sweetest  slumbers 

And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 

On  your  eyelids.     So  farewell : 

Thus  I  end  my  evening  knell. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


TO   A    MOUSE, 

ON   TURNING   HER    UP   IN    HER    NEST    WITH    THE    PLOUGH 
NOVEMBER,    I785. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic  's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle  ! 

I  'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request  ; 
I  '11  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  laive, 

And  never  miss  't  .' 


tft 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


341 


a 


Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  was  the  win's  are  strewin'  ! 
An'  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane 

0'  foggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou 's  turned  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  naught  but  grief  and  pain, 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  I 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear ; 
An'  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


THE   SONGSTERS. 


THE   SEASONS. 


....  Upsprings  the  lark, 
Shrill-vciced  and  loud,  the  messenger  of  morn  • 
Ere  yet  the  shadows  fly,  he  mounted  sings 
Amid  the  dawning  clouds,  and  from  their  haunts 
Calls  11  j I  the  tuneful  nations.      Every  copse 
Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
Bending  with  dewy  moisture,  o'er  the  heads 
Of  the  coy  quiristera  that  lodge  within, 
Arc  prodigal  of  harmony.     The  thrush 
And  woodlark,  o'er  the  kind-contending  throng 
Superior  heard,  run  through  the  sweetest  length 
Of  notes;  when  listening  Philomela  deigns 
To  let  them  joy,  and  purposes,  in  thought 
Elate,  to  make  her  night  excel  their  day. 
The  blackbird  whistles  from  the  thorny  brake; 
The  mellow  bullfinch  answers  from  the  grove; 
Nor  are  the  linnets,  o'er  the  flowering  furze 
Poured  oul  profusely,  silent  :  joined  to  these 
Innumerous  songsters,  in  the  freshening  shade 


Of  new-sprung  leaves,  their  modulations  mix 

MeUifluous.     The  jay,  the  rook,  the  daw, 

And  each  harsh  pipe,  discordant  heard  alone, 

Aid  the  full  concert ;  while  the  stockdove  breathes 

A  melancholy  murmur  through  the  whole. 

'T  is  love  creates  their  melody,  and  all 

This  waste  of  music  is  the  voice  of  love  ; 

That  even  to  birds  and  beasts  the  tender  arts 

Of  pleasing  teaches. 

James  Thomson. 


DOMESTIC    BIRDS. 

FROM    "THE   SEASONS." 

....  The  careful  hen 
Calls  all  her  chirping  family  around, 
Fed  and  defended  by  the  fearless  cock, 
Whose  breast  with  ardor  flames,  as  on  he  walks, 
Graceful,  and  crows  defiance.     In  the  pond 
The  finely  checkered  duck  before  her  train 
Rows  garrulous.     The  stately-sailing  swan 
Gives  out  her  snowy  plumage  to  the  gale  ; 
And,  arching  proud  his  neck,  with  oary  feet 
Bears  forward  fierce,  and  guards  his  osier-isle, 
Protective  of  his  young.     The  turkey  nigh, 
Loud-threatening,  reddens  ;  while  the  peacock 

spreads 
His  every-colored  glory  to  the  sun, 
And  swims  in  radiant  majesty  along. 
O'er  the  whole  homely  scene,  the  cooing  dove 
Flies  thick  in  amorous  chase,  and  wanton  rolls 
The  glancing  eye,  and  turns  the  changeful  neck. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


THE   BELFRY   PIGEON. 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 

The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 

In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 

Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air  ; 

I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 

With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 

And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 

Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 

Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 

And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last  ; 

'T  is  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 

And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 

There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 

And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest  ; 

And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  1  Ice],  — 

He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell,  — 
Chime  of  the  hour,  or  funeral  knell,  — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon, 


rr, 


a- 


342 


POEMS   OF  NATURE. 


ft 


AM)  en  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon, 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light, 
"When  the  child  is  waked  with  "nine  at  night,' 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer,  — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 
Then  drops  again,  with  filmed  eyes, 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird  !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men  ; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street, 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world,  and  soar  ; 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

1  would  that  in  such  wings  of  gold 
I  could  my  weary  heart  upfold  ; 
I  would  I  could  look  down  unmoved 
(Unloving  as  I  am  unloved), 
And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 
Smooth  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe  ; 
And  never  sad  with  others'  sadness, 
And  never  glad  with  others'  gladness, 
Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 
And,  lapped  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 

Thou  messenger  of  spring  ! 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear. 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant  !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  school-boy,  wandering  through  the  wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  thy  most  curious  voice  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 


What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year  ! 

0,  could  I  fly,  I  'd  fly  with  thee  ! 

We  'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 

Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Attendants  on  the  spring. 

John  Logan. 


TO   THE   CUCKOO. 

0  blithe  new-comer  !    I  have  heard, 

I  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 
0  cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 

Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear  ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 

Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring  ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery  ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

I  listened  to  ;  that  cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways, 

In  bush  and  tree  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green  ; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love  ; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 

That  golden  time  again. 

0  blessed  bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be 

An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place  ; 

That  is  fit  home  for  thee  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


~w 


rfl 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


343 


-a 


THE   SKYLARK. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea  ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place,  — 
0  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be  ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place, 
0  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

JAMBS  HOGG. 


TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
I  n  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still   dost   soar,  and  soaring  ever 
singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  setting  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  embodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  1  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  thai  silver  sphere, 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 

Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 


All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is 
overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes   and  fears   it  heeded 
not  ; 

Like  a  high -horn  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her 
bower  ; 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden, 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from 
the  view ; 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy- 
winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  fresh  and  clear  thy  music  doth  sur- 
pass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  ; 

I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphant  chant, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt,  — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden 
want. 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


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"What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
"What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
"What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  What  ignorance  of 
pain  ? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be  ; 
Shades  of  annoyance 

Never  come  near  thee  ; 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking,  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal 
stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not  ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear, 
if  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scornerof  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
Theworldshouldlisten  then,  as  I  am  listeningnow. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


TO   THE   SKYLARK. 

Ethereal  minstrel  !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound  ? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 

Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest,  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still  ! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 

Mount,  daring  warbler  !  —  that  love-prompted 
i  strain, 

'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond, 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  ; 
I  Yet  mightst  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  !  to  sing 
!  All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood  ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine  ; 
j  Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  ream,  — 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  THRUSH. 

Sweet  bird  !  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 

Of  winters  past  or  coming,  void  of  care  ; 

Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are, 

Fair   seasons,    budding    sprays,    sweet-smelling 

flowers,  — 

To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers 

Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare, 

And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare, 

A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 

What  soul  can  be  so  sick  which  by  thy  songs 

(Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not  driven 

Quite   to   forget   earth's    turmoils,    spites,    and 

wrongs, 

And  lift  a  reverent  eye  and  thought  to  heaven  ! 

Sweet,  artless  songster  !  thou  my  mind  dost  raise 

To  airs  of  spheres,  - —  yes,  and  to  angels'  lays. 

William  Drummond. 


HARK,   HARK!    THE   LARK — 

Hark,  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise  ; 
Arise,  arise  ! 

SHAKESPEARE. 


tfl* 


THE  ENGLISH   ROBIN. 

See  yon  robin  on  the  spray  ; 

Look  ye  how  his  tiny  form 
Swells,  as  when  his  merry  lay 

Gushes  forth  amid  the  storm. 

Though  the  snow  is  falling  fast, 

Specking  o'er  his  coat  with  white,  — 

Though  loud  roars  the  chilly  blast, 
And  the  evening 's  lost  in  night,  — 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


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Yet  from  out  the  darkness  dreary- 
Cometh  still  that  cheerful  note  ; 

Praiseful  aye,  and  never  weary, 
Is  that  little  warbling  throat. 

Thank  him  for  his  lesson's  sake, 

Thank  God's  gentle  minstrel  there, 

Who,  when  storms  make  others  quake, 

Sings  of  days  that  brighter  were. 

Harrison  Weir. 


THE   HEATH-COCK. 

Good  morrow  to  thy  sable  beak 
And  glossy  plumage  dark  and  sleek, 
Thy  crimson  moon  and  azure  eye, 
Cock  of  the  heath,  so  wildly  shy  : 
1  see  thee  slyly  cowering  through 
That  wiry  web  of  silvery  dew, 
That  twinkles  in  the  morning  air, 
Like  casements  of  my  lady  fair. 

A  maid  there  is  in  yonder  tower, 
Who,  peeping  from  her  early  bower, 
Half  shows,  like  thee,  her  simple  wile, 
Her  braided  hair  and  morning  smile. 
The  rarest  things,  with  wayward  will, 
Beneath  the  covert  hide  them  still ; 
The  rarest  things  to  break  of  day 
Look  shortly  forth,  and  shrink  away. 

A  fleeting  moment  of  delight 

I  sunned  me  in  her  cheering  sight ; 

As  short,  I  ween,  the  time  will  be 

That  I  shall  parley  hold  with  thee. 

Through  Snowdon's  mist  red  beams  the  day, 

The  climbing  herd-boy  chants  his  lay, 

The  gnat-flies  dance  their  sunny  ring,  — 

Thou  art  already  on  the  wing. 

Joanna  Baillie. 


THE   BOBOLINK. 

Bobolink  !  that  in  the  meadow, 
Or  beneath  the  orchard's  shadow, 
Keepest  up  a  constant  rattle 
Joyous  as.  my  children's  prattle, 
Welcome  to  the  north  again  ! 
Welcome  to  mine  ear  thy  strain, 

Welcome  to  mine  eye  the  sight 

Of  thy  bull',  thy  black  and  white. 
Brighter  plumes  may  greet  the  sun 
By  the  banks  of  Amazon  ; 

Sweeter   tolies  may   Weave    the  spell 

Of  enchanting  Philomel  ; 

Put  the  tropic  bird  would  fail, 
And  the  English  nightingale, 


If  we  should  compare  their  worth 
With  thine  endless,  gushing  mirth. 

When  the  ides  of  May  are  past, 
June  and  summer  nearing  fast, 
Whde  from  depths  of  blue  above 
Conies  the  mighty  breath  of  love, 
Calling  out  each  bud  and  flower 
With  resistless,  secret  power,  — 
Waking  hope  and  fond  desire, 
Kindling  the  erotic  fire,  — 
Pilling  youths'  and  maidens'  dreams 
With  mysterious,  pleasing  themes  ; 
Then,  amid  the  sunlight  clear 
Floating  in  the  fragrant  air, 
Thou  dost  fill  each  heart  with  pleasure 
By  thy  glad  ecstatic  measure. 

A  single  note,  so  sweet  and  low, 
Like  a  full  heart's  overflow, 
Forms  the  prelude  ;  but  the  strain 
Gives  no  such  tone  again, 
For  the  wild  and  saucy  song 
Leaps  and  skips  the  notes  among, 
With  such  quick  and  sportive  play, 
Ne'er  was  madder,  merrier  lay. 

Gayest  songster  of  the  spring  ! 
Thy  melodies  before  me  bring 
Visions  of  some  dream-built  land, 
Where,  by  constant  zephyrs  fanned, 
I  might  walk  the  livelong  day, 
Embosomed  in  perpetual  May. 
Nor  care  nor  fear  thy  bosom  knows  ; 
For  thee  a  tempest  never  blows  : 
But  when  our  northern  summer  's  o'er, 
By  Delaware's  or  Schuylkill's  shore 
The  wild  rice  lifts  its  airy  head, 
And  royal  feasts  for  thee  are  spread. 
And  when  the  winter  threatens  there, 
Thy  tireless  wings  yet  own  no  fear, 
But  bear  thee  to  more  southern  coasts, 
Far  beyond  the  reach  of  frosts. 

Bobolink  !  still  may  thy  gladness 
Take  from  me  all  taints  of  sadness  ; 
Fill  my  soul  with  trust  unshaken 
In  that  Being  who  has  taken 
Care  for  every  living  thing, 
In  summer,  winter,  fall,  and  spring. 

Thomas  Hill. 


ROBERT   OF   LINCOLN. 

MERRILY  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 

Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


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Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dressed, 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding  coat ; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note  : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  line. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Brood,  kind  creature  ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she, 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note, 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man  ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight  ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell 

Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seed  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 
Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care; 

Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air, 


Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes  ;  the  children  are  grown  ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows  ; 

Robert  of  Lincoln  's  a  humdrum  crone  ; 

Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes  : 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 

When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 

Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 

Chee,  chee,  chee. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


PERSEVERANCE. 

A  swallow  in  the  spring 
Came  to  our  granary,  and  'neath  the  eaves 
Essayed  to  make  a  nest,  and  there  did  bring 

Wet  earth  and  straw  and  leaves. 

Day  after  day  she  toiled 
With  patient  art,  but  ere  her  work  was  crowned, 
Some  sad  mishap  the  tiny  fabric  spoiled, 

And  dashed  it  to  the  ground. 

She  found  the  ruin  wrought, 
But  not  cast  down,  forth  from  the  place  she  flew, 
And  with  her  mate  fresh  earth  and  grasses  brought 

And  built  her  nest  anew. 

But  scarcely  had  she  placed 
The  last  soft  feather  on  its  ample  floor, 
When  wicked  hand,  or  chance,  again  laid  waste 

And  wrought  the  rain  o'er. 

But  still  her  heart  she  kept, 
And  toiled  again,  —  and  last  night,  hearing  calls, 
I  looked,  —  and  lo  !  three  little  swallows  slept 

Within  the  earth-made  walls. 

What  truth  is  here,  0  man  ! 
Hath  hope  been  smitten  in  its  early  dawn  ? 
Have  clouds  o'ercast  thy  purpose,  trust,  or  plan  ? 

Have  faith,  and  struggle  on  ! 

R.   S.   S.   ANDROS. 


THE   SWALLOW. 

Tn~E  gorse  is  yellow  on  the  heath, 

The  banks  with  speedwell  flowers  are  gay, 
The  oaks  are  budding  ;  and  beneath, 
The  hawthorn  soon  will  bear  the  wreath. 
The  silver  wreath  of  May. 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


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The  welcome  guest  of  settled  spring, 
The  swallow  too  is  come  at  last ; 

Just  at  sunset,  when  thrushes  sing, 

I  saw  her  dash  with  rapid  wing, 
And  hailed  her  as  she  passed. 

Come,  summer  visitant,  attach 

To  my  reed-roof  your  nest  of  clay, 
And  let  my  ear  your  music  catch, 
Low  twittering  underneath  the  thatch, 
At  the  gray  dawn  of  day. 

As  fahles  tell,  an  Indian  sage, 

The  Hindustani  woods  among, 
Could  in  his  desert  hermitage, 
As  if  't  were  marked  in  written  page, 
Translate  the  wild  bird's  song. 

I  wish  I  did  his  power  possess, 

That  I  might  learn,  fleet  bird,  from  thee, 
"What  our  vain  systems  only  guess, 
And  know  from  what  wild  wilderness 

You  came  across  the  sea. 

Charlotte  Smith. 


THE   WINGED   WORSHIPPERS. 

[Addressed   to  two  swallows  that    flew  into  the   Chauncy  Place 
Church  during  divine  service.] 

Gat,  guiltless  pair, 
"What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ! 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
"Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  't  is  given 
To  wake  sweet  Nature's  untaught  lays  ; 

Beneath  the  arch  oi  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  Bpread  each  wing 
Far,  far  above,  o'ei  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  th  choirs  1  ba1  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  il  ye  sti 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  le1  me  try  your  envied  power. 


Above  the  crowd 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I  'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'T  were  heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  Nature's  own  great  God  adore. 

Charles  Sprague. 


THE  DEPARTURE   OF   THE   SWALLOW. 

And  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 

Who  beheld  it  ? 

Which  way  sailed  it  ? 
Farewell  bade  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go  ;  — 

But  who  doth  hear 

Its  slimmer  cheer 
As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro  ? 

So  the  freed  spirit  flies  ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steals  away 
Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

"Whither  ?  wherefore  doth  it  go  ? 

'Tis  all  unknown  ; 

"We  feel  alone 
That  a  void  is  left  below. 

WILLIAM   HOWITT. 


DEPARTURE   OF   THE   SWALLOWS. 

f  Translation. ) 

TriE  rain-drops  plash,  and  the  dead  leaves  fall, 

On  spire  and  cornice  and  mould  ; 
The  swallows  gather,  and  twitter  and  call, 
"  "We  must  follow  tin'  summer,  come  one,  come  all, 

For  the  winter  is  now  so  cold." 

Just  listen  awhile  to  the  wordy  war, 
As  to  whither  the  way  shall  tend, 

Says  one,  "  I  know  the  skies  are  fair 

And  myriad  insects  float  in  air 
Where  the  ruins  of  Athens  stand. 

"  And  every  year  when  the  brown  leaves  fall, 

In  a  niche  of  the  Parthenon 
I  build  my  nest  cm  the  corniced  wall, 
In  the  trough  oi  a  devastating  ball 

From  the  Turk's  besieging  gun." 

Says  another,  "  My  cosey  home  I  fit 

<  >n  a  Smyrna  grande  ca/6, 
Where  over  the  threshold  Hadjii  sit, 
And  smoke  their  pipes  and  their  coffee  sip, 

Dreaming  the  hours  away." 


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rOEMS   OF   NATURE. 


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Another  says,  ' '  I  prefer  the  nave 

Of  a  temple  of  Baalbec  ; 
There  my  little  ones  lie  when  the  palm-trees  wave, 
And,  perching  near  on  the  architrave, 

I  fill  each  open  beak." 

"  Ah  !  "  says  the  last,  "  I  build  my  nest 

Far  up  on  the  Nile's  green  shore, 
Where  Meninon  raises  his  stony  crest, 
And  turns  to  the  sun  as  he  leaves  his  rest, 

But  greets  him  with  song  no  more. 

"  In  his  ample  neck  is  a  niche  so  wride, 

And  withal  so  deep  and  free, 
A  thousand  swallows  their  nests  can  hide, 
And  a  thousand  little  ones  rear  beside,  — 

Then  come  to  the  Nile  with  me." 

They  go,  they  go,  to  the  river  and  plain, 

To  ruined  city  and  town, 
They  leave  me  alone  with  the  cold  again, 
Beside  the  tomb  where  my  joys  are  lain, 

With  hope  like  the  swallows  flown. 

GAUTIER  (French). 


A   DOUBTING   HEART. 

"Where  are  the  swallows  fled  ? 

Frozen  and  dead 
Perchance  upon  some  bleak  and  stormy  shore. 
0  doubting  heart  ! 
Far  over  purple  seas 
They  wait,  in  sunny  ease, 
The  balmy  southern  breeze 
To  bring  them  to  their  northern  homes  once  more. 

Why  must  the  flowers  die  ? 

Prisoned  they  lie 
In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or  rain. 
0  doubting  heart  ! 
They  only  sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow 
While  winter  winds  shall  blow, 
To  breathe  and  smile  upon  you  soon  again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 

These  many  days  ; 
Will  dreary  hours  never  leave  the  earth  ? 
0  doubting  heart  ! 
The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky 
That  soon,  for  spring  is  nigh, 
Shall  wake  the  summer  into  golden  mirth. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 

Is  quenched  in  night ; 
What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  despair  ? 

0  doubting  heart  ! 


The  sky  is  overcast, 
Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 
Brighter  for  darkness  past, 
And  angels'  silver  voices  stir  the  air. 

ADELAIDE  ANNE   PROCTER. 


*- 


THE   NIGHTINGALE. 

The  rose  looks  out  in  the  valley, 

And  thither  will  I  go  ! 
To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 

Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  virgin  is  on  the  river-side, 

Culling  the  lemons  pale  : 
Thither,  — yes  !  thither  will  I  go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  fairest  fruit  her  hand  hath  culled, 

'T  is  for  her  lover  all  : 
Thither,  —  yes  !  thither  will  I  go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

In  her  hat  of  straw,  for  her  gentle  swain, 
She  has  placed  the  lemons  pale  : 

Thither,  — yes  !  thither  will  I  go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

GIL  VICENTE  (Portuguese).     Translation 
of  JOHN  BOWR1NG. 


THE   NIGHTINGALE. 

Prize  thou  the  nightingale, 
Who  soothes  thee  with  his  tale, 
And  wakes  the  woods  around  ; 
A  singing  feather  he,  —  a  winged  and  wandering 
sound  ; 

Whose  tender  carolling 
Sets  all  ears  listening 
Unto  that  living  lyre, 
Whence  flow  the  airy  notes  his  ecstasies  inspire  ; 

Whose  shrill,  capricious  song 
Breathes  like  a  flute  along, 
With  many  a  careless  tone,  — 
Music  of  thousand  tongues,  formed  by  one  tongue 
alone. 

0  charming  creature  rare  ! 
Can  aught  with  thee  compare  ? 
Thou  art  all  song,  —  thy  breast 
Thrills  for  one  month  o'  the  year,  —  is  tranquil 
all  the  rest. 


CH- 


■ff 


>       s 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 

"  With  its  cool  trees,  and  night. 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thame':, 
A  nd  moonshine,  and  the  dew.''' 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


o 


349 


Thee  wondrous  we  may  call,  — 
Most  wondrous  this  of  all, 
That  such  a  tiny  throat 
Should  wake  so  loud  a  sound,  and  pour  so.  loud 

a  note. 

Maria  Tesselschade  Visscher  (Dutch).    Translation 
of  John  bowring. 


PHILOMELA. 

Hark  !  ah,  the  nightingale  ! 
The  tawny-throated  ! 

Hark  !  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ! 
"What  triumph  !  hark,  — what  pain  ! 
0  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 
Still  —  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands  — 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewildered  brain 
That  wild,  uncpuenched,  deep-sunken,  Old-World 
pain,  — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn, 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  racked  heart  and  brain 

Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 
Here,  through  the   moonlight  on  this  English 

grass, 
The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild  ? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse, 
With  hot  cheeks  and  seared  eyes, 
Tho  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's  shame  ? 

Dost  thou  once  more  essay 
Thy  flight  ;  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  fugitive  !  the  feathery  change  ; 
Once  more  ;  and  once  more  make  resound, 
With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephisian  vale  ? 

Listen,  Eugenia,  — 

How  thick  the   bursts  come  crowding  through 

tlic  leaves  ! 
Again  —  thou  hearest ! 
Eternal  passion  ! 

1:,"n"1    l'ain!  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


ADDRESS  TO   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day, 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  :i  pleasanl  shade 

Which  a  grove  of  myrtle,  made, 

Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing, 

Tree.,  clM  grow,  and  plants  did  spring  ; 


Everything  did  banish  moan, 

Save  the  nightingale  alone. 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Leaned  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn  ; 

And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  he,  he  !  now  would  she  cry ; 

Teru,  teru,  by  and  by  ; 

That,  to  hear  her  so  complain, 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 

For  her  griefs,  so  lively  shown, 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah  !  (thought  I)  thou  mourn'st  in  vain  ; 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  ; 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee  ; 

Ruthless  bears,  they  will  not  cheer  thee  ; 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead  ; 

All  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead  : 

All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing, 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  ! 

Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smiled, 

Thou  and  I  were  both  beguiled, 

Every  one  that  flatters  thee 

Is  no  friend  in  misery. 

Words  are  easy,  like  the  wind  ; 

Faithful  friends  are  hard  to  find. 

Every  man  will  be  thy  friend 

Whilst  thou  hast  wherewith  to  spend  ; 

But,  if  stores  of  crowns  be  scant, 

No  man  will  supply  thy  want. 

If  that  one  be  prodigal, 

Bountiful  they  will  him  call ; 

And,  with  such-like  flattering, 

"  Pity  but  he  were  a  king." 

If  he  be  addict  to  vice, 

Quickly  him  they  will  entice  ; 

But  if  Fortune  once  do  frown, 

Then  farewell  his  great  renown  : 

They  that  fawned  on  him  before, 

Use  his  company  no  more. 

He  that  is  thy  friend  indeed, 

He  will  help  thee  in  thy  need  ; 

If  thou  sorrow,  he  will  weep, 

If  thou  wake,  he  cannot  sleep. 

Thus,  of  every  grief  in  heart, 

He  with  thee  doth  bear  a  part. 

These  are  certain  signs  to  know 

Faithful  friend  from  flattering  foe. 

Richard  Barnfield. 


THE  MOTHER   NIGHTINGALE. 

1  have  seen  a  nightingale 
On  a  sprig  of  thyme  bewail, 

Seeing  tin'  dear  nest,  which  was 
Hers  alone,  borne  off,  alas  ! 
By  a  laborer  ;  I  heard, 


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350 


TOEMS   OF   NATURE. 


For  this  outrage,  the  poor  bird 
Say  a  thousand  mournful  things 
To  the  wind,  which,  on  its  wings, 
To  the  Guardian  of  the  sky 
Bore  her  melancholy  cry, 
Bore  her  tender  tears.     She  spake 
As  if  her  fond  heart  would  break  : 
One  while  in  a  sad,  sweet  note, 
Gurgled  from  her  straining  throat, 
She  enforced  her  piteous  tale, 
Mournful  prayer  and  plaintive  wail ; 
One  while,  with  the  shrill  dispute 
Quite  outwearied,  she  was  mute  ; 
Then  afresh,  for  her  dear  brood, 
Her  harmonious  shrieks  renewed. 
Now  she  winged  it  round  and  round  ; 
Now  she  skimmed  along  the  ground  ; 
Now  from  bough  to  bough,  in  haste, 
The  delighted  robber  chased, 
And,  alighting  in  his  path, 
Seemed  to  say,  'twixt  grief  and  wrath, 
"  Give  me  back,  fierce  rustic  rude, 
Give  me  back  my  pretty  brood," 
And  I  heard  the  rustic  still 
Answer,  "  That  I  never  will." 

ESTEVAN  MANUEL  DE  VlLLEGAS  (Spanish). 
Translation  of  THOMAS  ROSCOE. 


/ 

MUSIC'S  DUEL. 

New  westward  Sol  had  spent  the  richest  beams 

Cf  noon's  high  glory,  when,  hard  by  the  streams 

Of  Tiber,  on  the  scene  of  a  green  plat, 

Under  protection  of  an  oak,  there  sat 

A  sweet  lute's-master,  in  whose  gentle  airs 

He  lost  the  day's  heat  and  his  own  hot  cares. 

Close  in  the  covert  of  the  leaves  there  stood 

A  nightingale,  come  from  the  neighboring  wood 

(The  sweet  inhabitant  of  each  glad  tree, 

Their  muse,  their  siren,  harmless  siren  she)  : 

There  stood  she  listening,  and  did  entertain 

The  music's  soft  report,  and  mould  the  same 

In  her  own  murmurs;  that  whatever  mood 

His  curious  fingers  lent,  her  voice  made  good. 

The  man  perceived  his  rival,  and  her  art ; 

Disposed  to  give  the  light-foot  lady  sport, 

Awakes  his  lute,  and  'gainst  the  fight  to  come 

Informs  it  in  a  sweet  prseludium 

Of  closer  strains,  and  e'er  the  war  begin, 

He  lightly  skirmishes  on  every  string 

Charged  with  a  flying  touch  ;  and  straightwayshe 

Carves  out  her  dainty  voice  as  readily 

Into  a  thousand  sweet  distinguished  tones, 

And  reckons  up  in  soft  divisions 

Quick  volumes  "f  wild  notes,  to  let  him  know, 

By  that  shrill  taste,  she  could  do  something  too. 


His  nimble  hand's  instinct  then  taught  each 
string 
A  capering  cheerfulness,  and  made  them  sing 
To  their  own  dance  ;  now  negligently  rash 
He  throws  his  arm,  and  with  a  long-drawn  dash 
Blends  all  together  ;  then  distinctly  trips 
From  this  to  that,  then  quick  returning  skips, 
And  snatches  this  again,  and  pauses  there. 
She  measures  every  measure,  everywhere 
Meets  art  with  art ;  sometimes,  as  if  in  doubt 
Not  perfect  yet,  and  fearing  to  be  out, 
Trails  her  plain  ditty  in  one  long-spun  note, 
Through  the  sleek  passage  of  her  open  throat, 
A  clear,  unwrinkled  song  ;  then  doth  she  point  it 
With  tender  accents,  and  severely  joint  it 
By  short  diminutives,  that  being  reared 
In  controverting  warbles,  evenly  shared, 
With  her  sweet  self  she  wrangles  :  he,  amazed 
That  from  so  small  a  channel  should  be  raised 
The  torrent  of  a  voice  whose  melody 
Could  melt  into  such  sweet  variety, 
Strains  higher  yet,  that,  tickled  with  rare  art, 
The  tattling  strings,  each  breathing  in  his  part, 
Most  kindly  do  fall  out  :  the  grumbling  bass 
In  surly  groans  disdains  the  treble's  grace  ; 
The  high-percht  treble  chirps  at  this,  and  chides, 
Until  his  finger  (moderator)  hides 
And  closes  the  sweet  quarrel,  rousing  all, 
Hoarse,  shrill,  at  once  ;  as  when  the  trumpets  call 
Hot  Mars  to  the  harvest  of  death's  field,  and  woo 
Men's  hearts  into  their  hands  ;  this  lesson  too 
She  gives  them  back  ;  her  supple  breast  thrills  out 
Sharp  airs,  and  staggers  in  a  warbling  doubt 
Of  dallying  sweetness,  hovers  o'er  her  skill, 
And  folds  in  waved  notes,  with  a  trembling  bill, 
The  pliant  series  of  her  slippery  song  ; 
Then  starts  she  suddenly  into  a  throng 
Of  short  thick  sobs,  whose  thundering  volleys  float, 
And  roll  themselves  over  her  lubric  throat 
In  panting  murmurs,  stilled  out  of  her  breast ; 
That  ever-bubbling  spring,  the  sugared  nest 
Of  her  delicious  soul,  that  there  does  lie 
Bathing  in  streams  of  liquid  melody  ; 
Music's  best  seed-plot  ;  when  in  ripened  airs 
A  golden -headed  harvest  fairly  rears 
His  honey-dropping  tops  ploughed  by  her  breath 
Which  there  reciprocally  laboreth. 
In  that  sweet  soil  it  seems  a  holy  quire, 
Sounded  to  the  name  of  great  Apollo's  lyre  ; 
Whose  silver  roof  rings  with  the  sprightly  notes 
Of  sweet-lipped  angel-imps,  that  swill  their  throats 
In  cream  of  morning  Helicon,  and  then 
Prefer  soft  anthems  to  the  ears  of  men, 
To  woo  them  from  their  beds,  still  murmuring 
That  men  can  sleep  while  they  their  matins  sing 
(Most  divine  service),  whose  so  early  lay 
Prevents  the  eyelids  of  the  blushing  day. 
There  might  you  hear  her  kindle  her  soft  voice 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


351 


-a 


In  the  close  murmur  of  a  sparkling  noise  ; 
And  lay  the  groundwork  of  her  hopeful  song, 
Still  keeping  in  the  forward  stream  so  long, 
Till  a  sweet  whirlwind  (striving  to  get  out) 
Heaves  her  soft  bosom,  wanders  round  about, 
And  makes  a  pretty  earthquake  in  her  breast, 
Till  the  fledged  notes  at  length  forsake  their  nest, 
Fluttering  in  wanton  shoals,  and  to  the  sky, 
Winged  with  their  own  wild  echoes,  prattling  fly. 
She  opes  the  floodgate,  and  lets  loose  a  tide 
Of  streaming  sweetness,  which  in  state  doth  ride 
On  the  waved  back  of  every  swelling  strain, 
Rising  and  falling  in  a  pompous  train  ; 
And  while  she  thus  discharges  a  shrill  peal 
Of  flashing  airs,  she  qualifies  their  zeal 
With  the  cool  epode  of  a  graver  note  ; 
Thus  high,  thus  low,  as  if  her  silver  throat 
"Would  reach  the  brazen  voice  of  war'shoarse  bird ; 
Her  little  soul  is  ravished,  and  so  poured 
Into  loose  ecstasies,  that  she  is  placed 
Above  herself,  music's  enthusiast. 

Shame  now  and  anger  mixed  a  double  stain 
In  the  musician's  face  :   "  Yet,  once  again, 
Mistress,  I  come  :  now  reach  a  strain,  my  lute, 
Above  her  mock,  or  be  forever  mute. 
Or  tune  a  song  of  victory  to  me, 
Or  to  thyself  sing  thine  own  obsequy." 
So  said,  his  hands  sprightly  as  fire  he  flings, 
And  with  a  quavering  coyness  tastes  the  strings. 
The  sweet-lipped  sisters  musically  frighted, 
Singing  their  fears  are  fearfully  delighted  ; 
Trembling  as  when  Apollo's  golden  hairs 
Are  fanned  and  frizzled  in  the  wanton  airs 
Of  his  own  breath,  which,  married  to  his  lyre, 
Doth  tune  the  spheres,  and  make  heaven's  self 

look  higher  ; 
From  this  to  that,  from  that  to  this  he  flies, 
Feels  music's  pulse  in  all  her  arteries  ; 
Caught  in  a  net  winch  there  Apollo  spreads, 
His  fingers  struggle  with  the  vocal  threads, 
Following  those  little  rills,  he  sinks  into 
A  sea  of  Helicon  ;  his  hand  does  go 
Those  pints  of  sweetness  which  with  nectar  drop, 
Softer  than  that  which  pants  in  Hebe's  cup. 
The  humorous  strings  expound  his  learned  touch 
By  various  glosses  ;  now  they  seem  to  grutch 
And  murmur  in  a  buzzing  din,  then  jingle 
In  shrill-toned  accents  striving  to  lie  single  ; 
Every  smooth  turn,  every  delicious  stroke 
(lives  life  to  some  new  grace  ;  tli us  doth  he  invoke 
Sweetness  by  all  her  names  ;  thus,  bravely  thus 
(JVaughl  with  a  fury  so  harmonious) 
The  lute's  light  genius  now  dues  proudly  rise, 
Heaved  on  the  surges  ofswoll'n  rhapsodies; 
"Whose  Sourish  (meteor-like)  doth  curl  (he  air 
With  flash  of  high-born  fancies,  here  and  there 
Dancing  in  lofty  measures,  ami  anon 
Creeps  on  the  soft  touch  of  a  tender  tone, 


Whose  trembling  murmurs,  melting  in  wild  airs, 

Run  to  and  fro,  complaining  his  sweet  cares  ; 

Because  those  precious  mysteries  that  dwell 

In  music's  ravished  soul  he  dare  not  tell, 

Rut  whisper  to  the  world  ;  thus  do  they  vary, 

Each  string  his  note,  as  if  they  meant  to  carry 

Their  master's  blest  soul  (snatched  out  at  his  ears 

By  a  strong  ecstasy)  through  all  the  spheres 

Of  music's  heaven  ;  and  seat  it  there  on  high, 

In  the  empyrean  of  pure  harmony. 

At  length  (after  so  long,  so  loud  a  strife 

Of  all  the  strings,  still  breathing  the  best  life 

Of  blest  variety,  attending  on 

His  fingers'  fairest  evolution, 

In  many  a  sweet  rise,  many  as  sweet  a  fall) 

A  full-mouthed  diapason  swallows  all. 

This  done,  he  lists  what  she  would  say  to  this  ; 
And  she,  although  her  breath's  late  exercise 
Had  dealt  too  roughly  with  her  tender  throat, 
Yet  summons  all  her  sweet  powers  for  a  note. 
Alas  !  in  vain  !  for  while  (sweet  soul)  she  tries 
To  measure  all  those  wild  diversities 
Of  chattering  strings,  by  the  small  size  of  one 
Poor  simple  voice,  raised  in  a  natural  tone  ; 
She  fails,  and  failing  grieves,  and  grieving  dies  : 
She  dies,  and  leaves  her  life  the  victor's  prize, 
Falling  upon  his  lute  :  0,  fit  to  have 
(That  lived  so  sweetly),  dead,  so  sweet  a  grave  ! 

Richard  Crashaw. 


BIRDS. 

FROM    "  THE   PELICAN    ISLAND." 

■ —  Birds,  the  free  tenants  of  land,  air,  and  ocean, 
Their  forms  all  symmetry,  their  motions  grace  ; 
In  plumage,  delicate  and  beautiful, 
Thick  without  burden,  close  as  fishes'  scales, 
Or  loose  as  full-blown  poppies  to  the  breeze  ; 
With  wings  that  might  have  had  a  soul  within 

them, 
They  bore  their  owners  by  such  sweet  enchantment, 
—  Birds,  small  and  great,  of  endless  shapes  and 

colors, 
Here  flew  and  perched,  there  swam  and  dived  at 

pleasure  ; 
Watchful  and  agile,  uttering  voices  wild 
Ami  harsh,  yet  in  accordance  with  the  waves 
Upon  the  beach,  the  winds  in  caverns  moaning, 
Or  winds  and  waves  abroad  upon  the  water. 
Some  sought  their  food  among  the  finny  shoals, 
Swift  darting  from  the  clouds,  emerging  soon 
With  slender  captives  glittering  in  their  beaks; 
These  in  recesses  of  steep  crags  constructed 
Their  eyries  inaccessible,  and  trained 
Their  hardy  broods  to  forage  in  all  weathers  : 
Others,  more  gorgeously  apparelled,  dwelt 
Among  the  woods,  on  nature's  dainties  feeding, 


±± 


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352 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


Herbs,  seeds,  and  roots  ;  or,  ever  on  the  wing, 
Pursuing  insects  through  the  boundless  air  : 
In  hollow  trees  or  thickets  these  concealed 
Their  exquisitely  woven  nests  ;  where  lay 
Their  callow  offspring,  quiet  as  the  down 
On  their  own  breasts,  till  from  her  search  the  dam 
With  laden  bill  returned,  and  shared  the  meal 
Among  her  clamorous  suppliants,  all  agape  ; 
Then,  cowering  o'er  them  with  expanded  wings, 
She  felt  how  sweet  it  is  to  be  a  mother. 
Of  these,  a  few,  with  melody  untaught, 
Turned  all  the  air  to  music  within  hearing, 
Themselves  unseen  ;  while  bolder  quiristers 
On  loftiest  branches  strained  their  clarion-pipes, 
And  made  the  forest  echo  to  their  screams 
Discordant,  — yet  there  was  no  discord  there, 
But  tempered  harmony  ;  all  tones  combining, 
In  the  rich  confluence  of  ten  thousand  tongues, 
To  tell  of  joy  and  to  inspire  it.     AVho 
Could  hear  such  concert,  and  not  join  in  chorus  ? 

-"Ot    1.  JAMES   MONTGOMERY. 


THE   PELICAN. 

FROM    "THE    PELICAN    ISLAND." 

At  early  dawn  I  marked  them  in  the  sky, 
Catching  the  morning  colors  on  their  plumes  ; 
Not  in  voluptuous  pastime  revelling  there, 
Among  the  rosy  clouds,  while  orient  heaven 
Flamed  like  the  opening  gates  of  Paradise, 
Whence  issued  forth  the  angel  of  the  sun, 
And  gladdened  nature  with  returning  day  : 
—  Eager  for  food,  their  searching  eyes  they  fixed 
On  ocean's  unrolled  volume,  from  an  height 
That  brought  immensity  within  their  scope  ; 
Yet  with  such  power  of  vision  looked  they  down, 
As   though  they  watched  the   shell-fish   slowly 

gliding 
O'er  sunken  rocks,  or  climbing  trees  of  coral. 
On  indefatigable  wing  upheld, 
Breath,    pulse,  existence,  seemed  suspended  in 

them  : 
They  were  as  pictures  painted  on  the  sky  ; 
Till  suddenly,  aslant,  away  they  shot, 
Like  meteors  changed  from  stars  to  gleams  of 

lightning, 
And  struck  upon  the  deep,  where,  in  wild  play, 
Their  quarry  floundered,  unsuspecting  harm  ; 
With  terrible  voracity,  they  plunged 
Their  heads  among  the  affrighted  shoals,  and  beat 
A  tempest  on  the  surges  with  their  wings, 
Till  flashing  clouds  of  foam  and  spray  concealed 

them. 
Nimbly  they  seized  and  secreted  their  prey, 
Alive  and  wriggling  in  the  elastic  net, 
Which  Nature  hung  beneath  their  grasping  beaks, 


Till,  swollen  with  captures,  the  unwieldy  burden 
Clogged  their  slow  flight,  as  heavily  to  land 
These  mighty  hunters  of  the  deep  returned. 
There  on  the  cragged  cliffs  they  perched  at  ease, 
Gorging  their  hapless  victims  one  by  one  ; 
Then,  full  and  weary,  side  by  side  they  slept, 
Till  evening  roused  them  to  the  chase  again. 

Love  found  that  lonely  couple  on  their  isle, 
And  soon  surrounded  them  with  blithe  compan- 
ions. 
The  noble  birds,  with  skill  spontaneous,  framed 
A  nest  of  reeds  among  the  giant-grass, 
That  waved  in  lights  and  shadows  o'er  the  soil. 
There,  in  sweet  thraldom,  yet  unweening  why, 
The  patient  dam,  who  ne'er  till  now  had  known 
Parental  instinct,  brooded  o'er  her  eggs, 
Long  ere  she  found  the  curious  secret  out, 
That  life  was  hatching  in  their  brittle  shells. 
Then,  from  a  wild  rapacious  bird  of  prey, 
Tamed  by  the  kindly  process,  she  became 
That  gentlest  of  all  living  things,  —  a  mother  ; 
Gentlest  while  yearning  o'er  her  naked  young, 
Fiercest  when  stirred  by  anger  to  defend  them. 
Her  mate  himself  the  softening  power  confessed, 
Forgot  his  sloth,  restrained  his  appetite, 
And  ranged  the  sky  and  fished  the  stream  for  her. 
Or,  when  o'erwearied  Nature  forced  her  off 
To  shake  her  torpid  feathers  in  the  breeze, 
And  bathe  her  bosom  in  the  cooling  flood, 
He  took  her  place,  and  felt  through  every  nerve, 
While  the  plump  nestlings  throbbed  against  his 

heart, 
The  tenderness  that  makes  the  vulture  mild  ; 
Yea,  half  unwillingly  his  post  resigned, 
When,  homesick  with  the  absence  of  an  hour, 
She  hurried  back,  and  drove  him  from  her  seat 
With  pecking  bill  and  cry  of  fond  distress, 
Answered  by  him  with  murmurs  of  delight, 
"Whose  gutturals  harsh  to  her  were  love's  own 

music. 
Then,  settling  down,  like  foam  upon  the  wave,. 
White,  flickering,  effervescent,  soon  subsiding, 
Her  ruffled  pinions  smoothly  she  composed  ; 
And,  while  beneath  the  comfort  of  her  wings, 
Her  crowded  progeny  quite  filled  the  nest, 
The  halcyon  sleeps  not  sounder,  when  the  wind 
Is  breathless,  and  the  sea  without  a  curl, 

—  Nor  dreams  the  halcyon  of  serener  days, 
Or  nights  more  beautiful  with  silent  stars, 
Than,  in  that  hour,  the  mother  pelican, 
When  the  warm  tumults  of  affection  sunk 
Into  calm  sleep,  and  dreams  of  what  they  were. 

—  Dreams  more  delicious  than  reality. 

—  He  sentinel  beside  her  stood,  and  watched 
With  jealous  eye  the  raven  in  the  clouds, 

And  the  rank  sea-mews  wheeling  round  the  cliffs. 
Woe  to  the  reptile  then  that  ventured  nigh  J 


ft 


--B3 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


353 


ft 


The  snap  of  his  tremendous  bill  was  like 
Death's    scythe,  down  -  cutting    everything   it 

struck. 
The  heedless  lizard,  in  his  gambols,  peeped 
Upon  the  guarded  nest,  from  out  the  flowers, 
But  paid  the  instant  forfeit  of  his  life  ; 
Nor  could  the  serpent's  subtlety  elude 
Capture,  when  gliding  by,  nor  in  defence 
Might  his  malignant  fangs  and  venom  save  him. 

Erelong  the  thriving  brood  outgrew  their  cra- 
dle, 
Ran   through   the   grass,    and    dabbled    in    the 

pools  ; 
No  sooner  denizens  of  earth  than  made 
Free  both  of  air  and  water  ;  day  by  day, 
New  lessons,  exercises,  and  amusements 
Employed  the  old  to  teach,  the  young  to  learn. 
Now  floating  on  the  blue  lagoon  behold  them  ; 
The  sire  and  dam  in  swan-like  beauty  steering, 
Their  cygnets  following  through  the  foamy  wake, 
Picking  the  leaves  of  plants,  pursuing  insects, 
Or  catching  at  the  bubbles  as  they  broke  : 
Till  on  some  minor  fry,  in  reedy  shallows, 
With  Happing  pinions  and  unsparing  beaks, 
The  well-taught  scholars  plied  their  double  art, 
To  fish  in  troubled  waters,  and  secure 
The  petty  captives  in  their  maiden  pouches  ; 
Then  hurried  wdth  their  banquet  to  the  shore, 
With    feet,   wings,  breast,    half  swimming   and 

half  flying. 
But  when  their  pens  grew  strong  to  fight  the 

storm, 
And  buffet  with  the  breakers  on  the  reef, 
The  parents  put  them  to  severer  proof ; 
On   beetling   rocks   the   little  ones  were   mar- 
shalled ; 
There,  by  endearments,  stripes,  example,  urged 
To  try  the  void  convexity  of  heaven, 
And  plough  the  ocean's  horizontal  field. 
Timorous  at  first  they  fluttered  round  the  verge, 
Balanced  and  furled  their  hesitating  wings, 
Then  put  them  forth  again  with  steadier  aim  ; 
Now,  gaining  courage  as  they  felt  the  wind 
Dilate  their  feathers,  fill  their  airy  frames 
With  buoyancy  that  bore  them  from  their  feet, 
They  yielded  all  their  burden  to  the  breeze, 
And  sailed  and  soared  where'er  their  guardians 

led  ; 
Ascending!  hovering,  wheeling,  or  alighting, 
They  searched  the  deep  in  quest  of  nobler  game 
Than  yet  their  inexperience  had  encountered  ; 
With  these  they  battled  in  thai  element, 
Where  wings  or  fins  were  equally  at  home, 
Till,  conquerors  in  many  a  desperate  strife, 
They  dragged  their  spoils  to  land,  and  gorged  at 

leisure. 

James  Montgomery. 


TO   A    BIRD 

THAT  HAUNTED  THE  WATERS  OF  LAAXEN  IN  THE 
WINTER. 

0  melancholy  bird,  a  winter's  day 

Thou  standest  by  the  ruargin  of  the  poor, 
And,  taught  by  God,  dost  thy  whole  being  school 

To  patience,  which  all  evil  can  allay. 

God  has  appointed  thee  the  fish  thy  prey, 
And  given  thyself  a  lesson  to  the  fool 
Unthrifty,  to  submit  to  moral  rule, 

And  his  unthinking  course  by  thee  to  weigh. 
There  need  not  schools  nor  the  professor's  chair, 

Though  these  be  good,  true  wisdom  to  impart  : 
He  who  has  not  enough  for  these  to  spare, 

Of  time  or  gold,  may  yet  amend  his  heart, 
And  teach  his  soul  by  brooks  and  rivers  fair,  — 

Nature  is  always  wise  in  every  part. 

Lord  Thurlow. 


TO   A   WATERFOWL. 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air,  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart : 


3~ 


-0 


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354 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 

flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE   STORMY   PETREL. 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 

Tossing  about  on  the  stormy  sea,  — ■ 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast. 

The  sails  are  scattered  abroad  like  weeds  ; 

The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds  ; 

The  mighty  cables  and  iron  chains, 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains,  — 

They  strain  and  they  crack  ;  and  hearts  like  stone 

Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !  —  up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's  crown, 

And  amidst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 

The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  home,  — 

A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  to  spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stormy  wing  ! 

O'er  the  deep  !  —  o'er  the  deep  ! 
"Where  the  whale  and  the  shark  and  the  sword- 
fish  sleep,  — 
Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  petrel  telleth  her  tale  —  in  vain  ; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Which  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storm  unheard  ! 
Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still ; 
Yet  he  ne'er  falters,  —  so,  petrel,  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


LINES   TO   THE   STORMY,  PETREL. 

The  lark  sings  for  joy  in  her  own  loved  land, 
1  n  the  furrowed  field,  by  the  breezes  fanned  ; 

And  so  revel  we 

In  the  furrowed  sea, 
As  joyous  and  glad  as  the  lark  can  be. 

On  the  placid  breast  of  the  inland  lake, 
The  wild  duck  delights  her  pastime  to  take  ; 

But  the  petrel  braves 

The  wild  ocean  waves, 
His  wing  in  the  foaming  billow  he  laves. 


The  halcyon  loves  in  the  noontide  beam 
To  follow  his  sport  on  the  tranquil  stream 

He  fishes  at  ease 

In  the  summer  breeze, 
But  we  go  angling  in  stormiest  seas. 

No  song-note  have  we  but  a  piping  cry, 

That  blends  with  the  storm  when  the  wind  is  high. 

When  the  land-birds  wail 

We  sport  in  the  gale, 
And  merrily  over  the  ocean  we  sail. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   OWL. 

In  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  tower, 

The  spectral  owl  doth  dwell ; 
Dull,  hated,  despised,  in  the  sunshine  hour, 

But  at  dusk  he  's  abroad  and  well  ! 
Not  a  bird  of  the  forest  e'er  mates  with  him  ; 

All  mock  him  outright  by  day  ; 
But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and  dim, 

The  boldest  will  shrink  away  ! 

0,  ivlien  tlie  night  falls,  and  roosts  the  fowl, 
Then,  then,  is  tlie  reign  of  the  horned  owl ! 

And  the  owl  hath  a  bride,  who  is  fond  and  bold, 

And  loveth  the  wood's  deep  gloom  ; 
And,  with  eyesliketheshineofthemoonstonecold, 

She  awaiteth  her  ghastly  groom  ; 
Not  a  feather  she  moves,  not  a  carol  she  sings, 

As  she  waits  in  her  tree  so  still ; 
But  when  her  heart  heareth  his  flapping  wings, 

She  hoots  out  her  welcome  shrill  ! 

0,  wlicn  the  moon  shines,  and  dogs  do  howl, 
Tlien,  then,  is  the  joy  of  the  horned  owl! 

Mourn  not  for  the  owl,  nor  his  gloomy  plight  ! 

The  owl  hath  his  share  of  good  : 

If  a  prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight, 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood  ! 

Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate, 

They  are  each  unto  each  a  pride  ; 

Thrice  fonder,  perhaps,  since  a  strange,  dark  fate 

Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside  ! 

So,  wlien  tlie  night  falls,  and  dogs  do  howl, 

Sing,  lio  !  for  the  reign  of  the  horned  owl  1 

We  know  not  alioay 

Who  are  kings  by  day, 

But  tlie  king  oftlic  night  is  tlie  boldbrown  oiol! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


TO   THE   HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee  ! 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me  ; 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek, 


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355 


to 


I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone  ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines  ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere  ; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June  ! 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum,  — 
All  without  is  martyrdom, 

When  the  south-wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall ; 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  the  color  of  romance  ; 
And  infusing  subtle  heats 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets,  — 
Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Eover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers  ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound, 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found  ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  birdlike  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen  ; 
But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple  sap,  and  daffodels, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  tci  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among  : 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  lie  passed. 
Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair. 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  Mast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast,  — 


Thou  already  slumberest  deep  ; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep  ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


A   SOLILOQUY. 

OCCASIONED    BY   THE   CHIRPING   OF   A    GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect  !  ever  blest 
With  a  more  than  mortal  rest, 
Rosy  dews  the  leaves  among, 
Humble  joys,  and  gentle  song  ! 
Wretched  poet  !  ever  curst 
With  a  life  of  lives  the  worst, 
Sad  despondence,  restless  fears, 
Endless  jealousies  and  tears. 

In  the  burning  summer  thou 
Warblest  on  the  verdant  bough, 
Meditating  cheerful  play, 
Mindless  of  the  piercing  ray  ; 
Scorched  in  Cupid's  fervors,  I 
Ever  weep  and  ever  die. 

Proud  to  gratify  thy  will, 
Ready  Nature  waits  thee  still ; 
Balmy  wines  to  thee  she  pours, 
Weeping  through  the  dewy  flowers, 
Rich  as  those  by  Hebe  given 
To  the  thirsty  sons  of  heaven. 

Yet,  alas,  we  both  agree. 
Miserable  thou  like  me  ! 
Each,  alike,  in  youth  rehearses 
Gentle  strains  and  tender  verses  ; 
Ever  wandering  far  from  home, 
Mindless  of  the  days  to  come 
(Such  as  aged  Winter  brings 
Trembling  on  his  icy  wings), 
Both  alike  at  last  we  die  ; 
Thou  art  starved,  and  so  am  I ! 

WALTER  HARTE. 


THE   GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be 

In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 

The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine  ! 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still. 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill  ; 

'T  is  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 

Nature  self's  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink  ami  dance  and  sing, 

Happier  than  tin'  happiest  king  ! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants  belong  to  thee  ; 

All  the  summer  hours  produce, 


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356 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


■a 


Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough, 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 

Thou  dost  innocently  enjoy, 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripened  year  ! 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire  ; 

Pluebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect  !  happy  thou, 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know  ; 

But  when  thou  'st  drunk  and  danced  and  sung 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 

Epicurean  animal  ! ) 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 

ANACREON  (Greek).     Translation  of 
Abraham  Cowley. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  ; 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead. 

That  is  the  grasshopper's,  —  he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury,  —  he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights  ;  for,  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never. 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

And  seems,  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

John  Keats. 


Both  have  your  sunshine  ;  both,  though  small, 

are  strong 
At  your  clear  hearts  ;  and  both  seem  given  to 

earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song,  — 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirth. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


THE   GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June,  — 
Sole  voice  that 's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass  ; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass  ! 

0  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 
One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 


THE  CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe'er  be  thine  abode 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 
Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet ; 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  I  can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  expressed, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest ! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire, 
Thou  hast  all  thy  heart's  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 

Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee, 

Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 

Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are  ; 

Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song,  — 

Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 

Unimpaired  and  shrill  and  clear, 

Melody  throughout  the  year. 

William  Cowper 


KATYDID. 

I  love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid  ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks,  — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,  — 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid  ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill. 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree,  — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids,  — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 


t& 


r 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


357 


r3> 


O,  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 

And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 
And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked  too  ? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 
I  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


-9 


TO   A   LOUSE, 

ON   SEEING  ONE   ON    A    LADY'S    BONNET   AT  CHURCH. 

Ha  !  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crawlin'  ferlie  ? 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly  : 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely 

Owrc  gauze  an'  lace  ; 
Though,  faith  !  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin',  blastit  wonner, 
Detested,  shunned  by  saunt  an'  sinner, 
How  dare  you  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  lady  ? 
Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar's  haffet  squattle  ; 
There  ye  may  creep  and  sprawl  and  sprattle 
"WT  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations  : 
Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne'er  daur  unsettle 
/  Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  haud  you  there,  ye  're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rels,  snug  an'  tight ; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet !  ye '11  no  be  right 

Till  ye  've  got  on  it, 
The  very  tapmost  tow'ring  height 

0'  Miss's  bonnet. 

My  sooth  ;  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out, 
Aa  plump  and  gray  as  ony  grozet  ; 

0  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum  ! 

1  M  gie  you  sic  a  hearty  dose  o't. 

Wad  dress  your  droddum  ! 

I  wad  na  been  surprised  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flanneii  toy  ; 
Or  aiblins  some  bi1  duddie  boy, 

On  's  wyliecoal  ; 
Bui  Miss's  fine  Lunardi,  fie  ! 

I  [ow  daur  ye  do't  ? 

0  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread  ! 


Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie  's  makin'  ! 
Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I  dread, 

Are  notice  takin'  ! 

0  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursel's  as  others  see  us  ! 
It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us, 

And  foolish  notion  : 
What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'e  us, 

And  ev'n  devotion  ! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


REMONSTRANCE   WITH   THE   SNAILS. 

Ye  little  snails, 
With  slippery  tails, 
Who  noiselessly  travel 
Along  this  gravel, 
By  a  silvery  path  of  slime  unsightly, 
I  learn  that  you  visit  my  pea-rows  nightly. 
Felonious  your  visit,  I  guess  ! 
And  I  give  you  this  warning, 
That,  every  morning, 

I  '11  strictly  examine  the  pods  ; 
And  if  one  I  hit  on, 
With  slaver  or  spit  on, 

Your  next  meal  will  be  with  the  gods. 

I  own  you  're  a  very  ancient  race, 

And  Greece  and  Babylon  were  amid  ; 
You  have  tenanted  many  a  royal  dome, 

And  dwelt  in  the  oldest  pyramid  ; 
The  source  of  the  Nile  !  —  0,  you  have  been  there  ! 

In  the  ark  was  your  floodless  bed  ; 
On  the  moonless  night  of  Marathon 

You  crawled  o'er  the  mighty  dead  ; 

But  still,  though  I  reverence  your  ancestries, 
I  don't  see  why  you  should  nibble  my  peas. 

The  meadows  are  yours,  —  the  hedgerow  and  brook, 

You  may  bathe  in  their  dews  at  mom  ; 
By  the  aged  sea  you  may  sound  your  sliclls, 

On  the  mountains  erect  your  horn  ; 
The  fruits  and  the  flowers  are  your  rightful  dowers, 

Then  why  —  in  the  name  of  wonder  — 
Should  my  six  pea-rows  be  the  only  cause 

To  excite  your  midnight  plunder  ? 

I  have  never  disturbed  your  slender  shells  ; 

You  have  hung  round  my  aged  walk  ; 
And  each  might  have  sat,  till  he  died  in  his  fat, 

Beneath  his  own  cabbage-stalk  : 
Rut  now  you  must  fly  from  the  soil  of  your  sires  ; 

Then  put  on  your  liveliest  crawl, 
And  think  of  your  poor  little  snails  at  home, 

Now  orphans  or  emigrants  all. 


Cj 


358 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


Utensils  domestic  and  civil  and  social 
I  give  you  an  evening  to  pack  up  ; 
But  if  the  moon  of  this  night  does  not  rise  on  your 
flight, 
To-morrow  I  '11  hang  each  man  Jack  up. 
You  '11  think  of  my  peas  and  your  thievish  tricks, 

With  tears  of  slime,  when  crossing  the  Styx. 

anonymous. 


A   FOREST   HYMN. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man 
learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them,  —  ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?  Let  me,  at  least, 
Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn,  —  thrice  happy  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look 

down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and  forthwith  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They  in  thy  sun 
Budded,  and  shook  theirgreen  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
Andshottowardsheaven.  The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till  at  last  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy  and  tail  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.    These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.   But  thou  art  here,  — thoufill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music  ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 


Comes,  scarcely  felt;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 

The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship  ;  —  nature,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly  around, 

From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps  the  roots 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak,  — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated,  —  not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me,  —  the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die  ;  but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses,  —  ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     0,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  Earth's  charms  !  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies, 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy  Death,  —  yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne,  the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.    For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them  ;  —  and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 


■ff 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


359       1 


My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble,  and  are  still.     0  God  !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities,  —  who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
0,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE   BRAVE   OLD   OAK. 

A  song  to  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak, 

Who  hath  ruled  in  the  greenwood  long  ; 
Here  'shealth  and  renown  to  his  broad  green  crown, 

And  his  fifty  arms  so  strong. 
There  'sfear  in  his  frown  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

And  the  fire  in  the  west  fades  out ; 
And  he  showeth  his  might  on  a  wild  midnight, 

When  the  storm  through  his  branches  shout. 

Then  here 's  to  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak, 
Who  stands  in  his  pride  alone  ; 

And  still  flourish  he,  a  hale  green  tree, 
When  a  hundred  years  are  gone  ! 

In  the  'lavs  of  old,  when  the  spring  with  cold 

Had  brightened  his  branches  gray, 
Through  the  grass  at  his  feet  crept  maidens  sweet, 

To  gather  the  dew  of  May. 
And  on  that  day  to  the  rebeck  gay 

They  frolicked  with  lovesome  swains  ; 
They  are  gone,  they  are  dead,  in  the  churchyard 
laid, 

But  the  tree  it  still  remains. 
Then  here  's,  &c. 

He  saw  the  ran-  times  when  the  Christmas  chimes 

Was  a  merry  sound  to  hear, 
When  the  Bquire's  wide  hall  ami  the  cottage  small 

Were  filled  with  g 1  English  cheer. 

Now  gold  hath  tin1  sway  we  all  obey, 

And  a  ruthless  king  i.s  he  ; 
But  In1  never  shall  semi  our  ancient  friend 

To  he  tossed  on  the  stormy  sea. 

Then  here  'a,  &c. 

H.  r.  chorley. 


THE   ARAB   TO   THE   PALM. 

Next  to  thee,  0  fair  gazelle, 

0  Beddowee  girl,  beloved  so  well ; 

Next  to  the  fearless  Nedjidee, 

Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to  thee  ; 

Next  to  ye  both,  I  love  the  palm, 

With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of  balm  ; 

Next  to  ye  both,  I  love  the  tree 
Whose  fluttering  shadow  wraps  us  three 
With  love  and  silence  and  mystery  ! 

Our  tribe  is  many,  our  poets  vie 
With  any  under  the  Arab  sky  ; 
Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  palm  but  I. 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo's  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 

He  lifts  his  leaves  in  the  sunbeam's  glance, 
As  the  Almehs  lift  their  arms  in  dance,  — 

A  slumberous  motion,  a  passionate  sign, 
That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood  like  wine. 

Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he, 
Dreaming  where  the  beloved  may  be. 

And  when  the  warm  south-winds  arise, 
He  breathes  his  longing  in  fervid  sighs, 

Quickening  odors,  kisses  of  balm, 

That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen  palm. 

The  sun  may  flame,  and  the  sands  may  stir, 
But  the  breath  of  his  passion  reaches  her. 

0  tree  of  love,  by  that  love  of  thine, 
Teach  me  how  I  shall  soften  mine  ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  sun, 
Whereby  the  wooed  is  ever  won  ! 

If  I  were  a  king,  0  stately  tree, 

A  likeness,  glorious  as  might  be, 

In  the  court  of  my  palace  I  'd  build  for  thee  ! 

With  a  shaft  of  silver,  burnished  bright, 
And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite  ; 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  ablaze, 
And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chrysoprase. 

And  there  the  poets,  in  thy  praise, 

Should  night  and  morning  frame  new  lays, — 

New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine  ; 
But  none,  0  palm,  should  equal  mim1  ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 


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e> 


a- 


300 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


-t: 


THE   PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 

On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ? 

Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm  ? 

A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath, 
"Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm-bark  sheath, 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and  rails, 

Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 

And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly  trails  ! 

What  does  the  good  ship  bear  so  well  ? 
The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

"What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine, 

But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil  and  wine, 

And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the  Line  ? 

"Who  smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and  calm  ? 

The  master,  whose  cunning  and  skill  could  charm 

Cargo  and  ship  from  the  bounteous  palm. 

In  the  cabin  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat  soft, 
From  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink  is  quaffed, 
And  a  palm  thatch  shields  from  the  sun  aloft  ! 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 

And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his  hands, 

Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise  commands  ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 

"Was  daintily  wrought  of  the  palm -leaf  braid, 

And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm  was  made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet  spun 
"Whereon  he  kneels  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are  bowed  as  one  ! 

To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine,  — 
House  and  raiment  and  food  and  wine  ! 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release, 
His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only  cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in  peace. 

"Allah  il  Allah  !  "  he  sings  his  psalm, 

On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ; 

"Thanks  to  Allah,  who  gives  the  palm  !  " 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE   HOLLY-TREE. 

0  READER  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly-tree  ? 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves 


Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 

As  might  confound  the  atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

Wrinkled  and  keen  ; 
No  grazing  cattle,  through  their  prickly  round, 

Can  reach  to  wound  ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

I  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

And  moralize  ; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly-tree 

Can  emblems  see 
"Wherewith,  perchance,  to  make  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus,  though  abroad,  perchance,  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere,  — 
To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude, 

Reserved  and  rude  ; 
Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I  'd  be, 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I  know, 

Some  harshness  show, 
All  vain  asperities  I,  day  by  day, 

Would  wear  away, 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green, 
The  holly-leaves  their  fadeless  hues  display 

Less  bright  than  they  ; 
But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly-tree  ? 

So,  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng ; 
So  would  I  seem,  amid  the  young  and  gay, 

More  grave  than  they  ; 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly-tree. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


THE   GRAPE-VINE   SWING. 

Lithe  and  long  as  the  serpent  train, 

Springing  and  clinging  from  tree  to  tree, 
Now  darting  upward,  now  clown  again, 

With  a  twist  and  a  twirl  that  are  strange  to  see  ; 
Never  took  serpent  a  deadlier  hold, 

Never  the  cougar  a  wilder  spring, 
Strangling  the  oak  with  the  boa's  fold, 

Spanning  the  beech  with  the  condor's  wing. 

Yet  no  foe  that  we  fear  to  seek,  — 

The  boy  leaps  wild  to  thy  rude  embrace  ; 


ifi- 


~fl 


a 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


3G1 


Thy  bulging  arms  bear  as  soft  a  cheek 
As  ever  on  lover's  breast  found,  place  ; 

On  thy  waving  train  is  a  playful  hold 

Thou  shalt  never  to  lighter  grasp  persuade  ; 

While  a  maiden  sits  in  thy  drooping  fold, 
And  swings  and  sings  in  the  noonday  shade  ! 

0  giant  strange  of  our  southern  woods, 

I  dream  of  thee  still  in  the  well-known  spot, 
Though  our  vessel  strains  o'er  the  ocean  floods, 
And  the  northern  forest  beholds  thee  not ; 

1  think  of  thee  still  with  a  sweet  regret, 

As  the  cordage  yields  to  my  playful  grasp,  — 
Dost  thou  spring  and  cling  in  our  woodlands  yet  ? 
Does  the  maiden  still  swing  in  thy  giant  clasp  ? 

WILLIAM  ClLMORE  SIMMS. 


FAIR   PLEDGES   OF  A   FRUITFUL  TREE. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

"Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 

To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What  !  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 

And  so  to  bid  good  night  ? 
'T  is  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth, 

Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  <piite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  ; 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 
Like  you  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


ALMOND    BLOSSOM. 

Blossom  of  the  almond-trees, 
April's  gift  to  April's  bees, 
Birthday  ornament  of  spring, 
Flora's  fairest  daughterling  ;  — 
Coming  when  no  flowerets  dare 
Trust  the  erne]  outer  air, 
When  the  royal  king-cup  bold 
Dares  not  don  his  coal  of  gold, 
Ami  tin-  sturdy  blackthorn  spray 
Keeps  his  silver  for  the  May  ;  — 
<  loming  when  no  flowerets  would, 

Save  thy  lowly  sisterh 1, 

Early  violets,  blue  and  white, 
Dying  for  their  love  of  light. 


Almond  blossom,  sent  to  teach  us 

That  the  spring  days  soon  will  reach  us, 

Lest,  with  longing  over-tried, 

We  die  as  the  violets  died,  — 

Blossom,  clouding  all  the  tree 

With  thy  crimson  broidery, 

Long  before  a  leaf  of  green 

On  the  bravest  bough  is  seen,  — 

Ah  !  when  winter  winds  are  swinging 

All  thy  red  bells  into  ringing, 

With  a  bee  in  every  bell, 

Almond  bloom,  we  greet  thee  well. 

Edwin  Arnold. 


THE   PLANTING   OF   THE   APPLE-TREE. 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade  ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made  ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet ; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt,  and  sing,  and  hide  her  nest  ; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard  row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors  ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  gill's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  Ian  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  tins  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage  hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  Line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew  ; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
0,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  ? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  apple-tree  ? 

"Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree  ?" 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say  ; 
Anil,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them  : 

"  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 

Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times  ; 

'T  is  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 

On  planting  the  apple-tree." 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE    MAIZE. 

"  That  precious  seed  into  the  furrow  cast 
Earliest  in  springtime  crowns  the  harvest  last." 

Phcf.be  Carey. 

A  SONG  for  the  plant  of  my  own  native  West, 
Where  nature  and  freedom  reside, 

By  plenty  still  crowned,  and  by  peace  ever  blest, 
To  the  corn  !  the  green  corn  of  her  pride  ! 


In  climes  of  the  East  has  the  olive  been  sung. 
And  the  grape  been  the  theme  of  their  lays, 

But  for  thee  shall  a  harp  of  the  backwoods  be 
strung, 
Thou  bright,  ever  beautiful  maize  ! 

Afar  in  the  forest  the  rude  cabins  rise, 

And  send  up  their  pillars  of  smoke, 
And  the  tops  of  their  columns  are  lost  in  the  skies, 

O'er  the  heads  of  the  cloud-kissing  oak  ; 
Near  the  skirt  of  the  grove,  where  the  sturdy  arm 
swings 

The  axe  till  the  old  giant  sways, 
And  echo  repeats  every  blow  as  it  rings, 

Shoots  the  green  and  the  glorious  maize  ! 

There  buds  of  the  buckeye  in  spring  are  the  first, 

And  the  willow's  gold  hair  then  appears, 
And  snowy  the  cups  of  the  dogwood  that  burst 

By  the  red  bud,  with  pink-tinted  tears. 
And  striped  the  bolls  which  the  poppy  holds  up 

For  the  dew,  and  the  sun's  yellow  rays, 
And  brown  is  the  pawpaw's  shade-blossoming  cup, 

In  the  wood,  near  the  sun-loving  maize  ! 

When  through  the  dark  soil  the  bright  steel  of 
the  plough 

Turns  the  mould  from  its  unbroken  bed, 
The  ploughman  is  cheered  by  the  finch  on  the 
bough, 

And  the  blackbird  doth  follow  his  tread. 
And  idle,  afar  on  the  landscape  descried, 

The  deep-lowing  kine  slowly  graze, 
And  nibbling  the  grass  on  the  sunny  hillside 

Are  the  sheep,  hedged  away  from  the  maize. 

With  springtime  and  culture,  in  martial  array 

It  waves  its  green  broadswords  on  high, 
And  fights  with  the  gale,  in  a  fluttering  fray, 

And  the  sunbeams,  which  fall  from  the  sky  ; 
It  strikes  its  green  blades  at  the  zephyrs  at  noon, 

And  at  night  at  the  swift-flying  fays, 
Who  ride  through  the  darkness  the  beams  of  the 
moon, 

Through  the  spears  and  the  flags  of  the  Maize  ! 

When  the  summer  is  fierce  still  its  banners  are 
green, 
Each  warrior's  long  beard  groweth  red, 
His  emerald-bright  sword  is  sharp-pointed  and 
keen, 
And  golden  his  tassel -plumed  head. 
As  a  host  of  armed  knights  set  a  monarch  at 
naught, 
They  defy  the  day-god  to  his  gaze, 
And,  revived  every  morn  from  the  battle  that 's 
fought, 
Fresh  stand  the  green  ranks  of  the  maize  ! 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


363 


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But  brown  comes  the  autumn,  and  sear  grows 
the  corn, 

And  the  woods  like  a  rainbow  are  dressed, 
And  but  for  the  cock  and  the  noontide  horn 

Old  Time  would  be  tempted  to  rest. 
The  humming  bee  fans  off  a  shower  of  gold 

From  the  mullein's  long  rod  as  it  sways, 
And  dry  grow  the  leaves  which  protecting  infold 

The  ears  of  the  well-ripened  maize  ! 

At  length  Indian  Summer,  the  lovely,  doth  come, 

With  its  blue  frosty  nights,  and  days  still, 
When  distantly  clear  sounds  the  waterfall's  hum, 

And  the  sun  smokes  ablaze  on  the  hill  ! 
A  dim  veil  hangs  over  the  landscape  and  flood, 

And  the  hills  are  all  mellowed  in  haze, 
While  fall,  creeping  on  like  a  monk  'neath  his 
hood, 

Plucks  the  thick-rustling  wealth  of  the  maize. 

And  the  heavy  wains  creak  to  the  barns  large 
and  gray, 
Where  the  treasure  securely  we  hold, 
Housed   safe   from   the   tempest,  dry  -  sheltered 
away, 
Our  blessing  more  precious  than  gold  ! 
And  long  for  this  manna  that  springs  from  the 
sod 
Shall  we  gratefully  give  Him  the  praise, 
The  source  of  all  bounty,  our  Father  and  God, 
Who  sent  us  from  heaven  the  maize  ! 

William  W.  Fosdick. 


THE   POTATO. 

I  'm  a  careless  potato,  and  care  not  a  pin 

How  into  existence  I  came  ; 
If  they  planted  me  drill-wise,  or  dibbled  me  in, 

To  me  't  is  exactly  the  same. 
The  bean  and  the  pea  may  more  loftily  tower, 

But  I  care  not  a  button  for  them  ; 
Defiance  I  noil  with  my  beautiful  flower 

When  the  earth  is  hoed  up  to  my  stem. 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE   PUMPKIN. 

ON  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark  Spanish  maiden 
Comes  upwith  the  fruit  of  the  tangled  vine  laden ; 
And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  Laughs  out  to  behold 
Through  orange-leaves  shining  the  broad  spheres 

of  gold  ; 
Yd  with  dearerdelightfromhishomeintheNorth, 
On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee  looks  forth, 
Where  crook-necl  tiling  and  yellow  fruit 

shin 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down  on  his  vines. 


Ah  !  on  Thanksgiving  Day,  when  from  East  and 
from  West, 

From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pilgrim 
and  guest, 

When  the  gray-haired  New-Englander  sees  round 
his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  restored, 

When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  Ins  mother  once 
more, 

And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl  smiled 
before, 

Whatmoistensthelip,  and  what  brightens  the  eye  ? 

What  calls  back  the  past  like  the  rich  pumpkin- 
pie  ? 

0,  —  fruit  loved  of  boyhood  !  —  the  old  days  re- 
calling, 

When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown  nuts 
were  falling  ! 

When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin, 

Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a  candle  within  ! 

When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap,  with  hearts 
all  in  tune, 

Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin,  —  our  lantern  the 
moon, 

Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled  like  steam 

In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her 
team  ! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present  !  —  none  sweeter  or 

better 
E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a  platter  ! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry  more  tine, 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  baking,  than 

thine  ! 
And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to 

express, 
Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be  less, 
That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened  below, 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pumpkin-vine 

grow, 

And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 

Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  pumpkin-pie  ! 
John  Greenleaf  whittier. 


HYMN    TO   THE   FLOWERS. 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  frownlesseyes  to  twin- 
kle 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation. 

Yc  matin  worshippers  !  who  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  Bun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 


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364 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


ft 


Ye  bright  mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty, 

The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tessellate, 
"What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create  ! 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell  that 
swingeth 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn, 
Which  God  hath  planned  ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  ami  moon 
supply ; 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder, 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Through  the  green  aisles,  or  stretched  upon  the 
sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  flowers  !  are  living  preach- 
ers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  Apostles  !  that  in  dewy  splendor 

"Weep  without  woe,   and   blush  without   a 
crime," 
0,  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime  ! 

"  Thou  wert  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory, 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes  like  ours  ! 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !  ah,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers  !  " 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  artist  ! 
With  which  thou  paintest  Nature's  wide-spread 
hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all  ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,   flowers  !    though  made  for 
pleasure  ; 
Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and  night, 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 

For  sucha  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope. 


Posthumous  glories  !  angel-like  collection  ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I  in  churchless  solitudes  remaining. 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  and  divines, 
My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  God's  ordaining, 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines  ! 

Horace  smith. 


FLOWERS. 

I  will  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 

Whose  head  is  turned  by  the  sun  ; 
The  tulip  is  a  courtly  quean, 

Whom,  therefore,  I  will  shun  ; 
The  cowslip  is  a  country  wench, 

The  violet  is  a  nun  ;  — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 

The  queen  of  every  one. 

The  pea  is  but  a  wanton  witch, 

In  too  much  haste  to  wed, 
And  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand  ; 

The  wolfsbane  I  should  dread  ; 
Nor  will  I  dreary  rosemarye, 

That  always  mourns  the  dead  ;  — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 

With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  white,  like  a  saint, 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  me  ; 
And  the  daisy's  cheek  is  tipped  with  a  blush, 

She  is  of  such  low  degree  ; 
Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves, 

And  the  broom 's  betrothed  to  the  bee  ;  — 

But  I  will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose, 

For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE   ROSE. 

FROM    "HASSAN    BEN    KHALED." 

' '  Then  took  the  generous  host 
A  basket  filled  with  roses.     Every  guest 
Cried,  '  Give  me  roses  ! '  and  he  thus  addressed 
His  words  to  all :   '  He  who  exalts  them  most 
In  song,  he  only  shall  the  roses  wear.' 
Then  sang  a  guest  :   '  The  rose's  cheeks  are  fair  ; 
It  crowns  the  purple  bowl,  and  no  one  knows 
If  the  rose  colors  it,  or  it  the  rose.' 
And  sang  another  :   '  Crimson  is  its  hue, 
And  on  its  breast  the  morning's  crystal  dew 
Is  changed  to  rubies.'     Then  a  third  replied  : 
'  It  blushes  in  the  sun's  enamored  sight, 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


3C5 


■a 


As  a  young  virgin  on  her  wedding  night, 
When  from  her  face  the  bridegroom  lifts  the  veil.' 
"When  all  had  sung  their  songs,  I,  Hassan,  tried. 
'  The  rose,'  I  sang,  '  is  either  red  or  pale, 
Like  maidens  whom  the  flame  of  passion  burns, 
And  love  or  jealousy  controls,  by  turns. 
Its  buds  are  lips  preparing  for  a  kiss  ; 
Its  open  flowers  are  like  the  blush  of  bliss 
On  lovers'  cheeks  ;  the  thorns  its  armor  are, 
And  in  its  centre  shines  a  golden  star, 
As  on  a  favorite's  cheek  a  sequin  glows  ;  — 
And  thus  the  garden's  favorite  is  the  rose.' 
"  The  master  from  his  open  basket  shook 
The  roses  on  my  head." 

bayard  Taylor. 


THE   MOSS   ROSE. 

[Translation.] 

The  angel  of  the  flowers,  one  day, 

Beneath  a  rose-tree  sleeping  lay,  — 

That  spirit  to  whose  charge  't  is  given 

To  bathe  young  buds  in  dews  of  heaven, 

Awaking  from  his  light  repose, 

The  angel  whispered  to  the  rose  : 

"  0  fondest  object  of  my  care, 

Still  fairest  found,  where  all  are  fair  ; 

For  the  sweet  shade  thou  giv'st  to  me 

Ask  what  thou  wilt,  't  is  granted  thee." 

"  Then,"  said  the  rose,  with  deepened  glow, 

"  On  me  another  grace  bestow." 

The  spirit  paused,  in  silent  thought,  — 

What  grace  was  there  that  flower  had  not  ? 

'T  was  but  a  moment,  —  o'er  the  rose 

A  veil  of  moss  the  angel  throws, 

And,  rolled  in  nature's  simplest  weed, 

Could  there  a  flower  that  rose  exceed  ? 

KRUMMACHER. 


THE   ROSE. 

FROM    "THE    LADY   OF  THE   LAKE." 

"The  rose  is  Fairest  when  't  is  budding  new, 

And  hope  is  brightest  when   it  dawns   from 
fears  ; 
The  rose  is  sweetest  washed  with  morning  dew, 

And  love  is  lovelies!  when  embalmed  in  tears. 
0  wilding  rose,  whom  fancy  thus  endears, 

1  Mil  your  blossoms  in  my  bonnel  wave, 
Emblem  of  hope  ami  love  through  future  years  !  " 

Thus   spoke  young  Norman,  heir  of  Arman- 
dave, 

What  time  the  sun  arose  on  Vennachar's  broad 

wave. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


'T  IS   THE   LAST   ROSE   OF   SUMMER. 

'T  is  the  last  rose  of  summer, 

Left  blooming  alone  ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud,  is  nigh 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  ! 

I  '11  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one  ! 

To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them  ; 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  /  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away  ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
0,  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 

THOMAS  MOORE  ("Irish  Melodies"). 


TO   THE   FRINGED   GENTIAN. 

Thou  blossom,  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night  ; 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  ami  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  bidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  Year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hop<\  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

WILLIAM  CULLUN  BKYANT. 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


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THE   EARLY   PRIMROSE. 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,  when  young  Spring  first  rpiestioned  "Win- 
ter's sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  Virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity  ;  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 

Obscure  and  unobserved  ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows 

Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

Henry  Kirke  White. 


THE  RHODORA. 

LINES   ON    BEING   ASKED,    WHENCE    IS   THE    FLOWER? 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  rhodora  in  the  woods 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook  : 
The  purple  petals  fallen  in  the  pool 

Made  the  black  waters  with  their  beauty  gay,  — 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora  !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  marsh  and  sky, 
Dear,  tell  them,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Why  thou  wert  there,  0  rival  of  the  rose  ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask  ;  I  never  knew, 

But  in  my  simple  ignorance  suppose 
The  selfsame  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought 

you-  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


THE   BROOM-FLOWER. 

0  ttie  broom,  the  yellow  broom  ! 

The  ancient  poet  sung  it, 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 

To  he  at  rest  among  it. 


I  know  the  realms  where  people  say 
The  flowers  have  not  their  fellow  ; 

I  know  where  they  shine  out  like  suns, 
The  crimson  aud  the  yellow. 

I  know  where  ladies  live  enchained 

In  luxury's  silken  fetters, 
And  flowers  as  bright  as  glittering  gems 

Are  used  for  written  letters. 

But  ne'er  was  flower  so  fair  as  this, 

In  modern  days  or  olden  ; 
It  groweth  on  its  nodding  stem 

Like  to  a  garland  golden. 

And  all  about  my  mother's  door 
Shine  out  its  glittering  bushes, 

And  down  the  glen,  where  clear  as  light 
The  mountain-water  gushes. 

Take  all  the  rest  ;  but  give  me  this, 
And  the  bird  that  nestles  in  it,  — 

I  love  it,  for  it  loves  the  broom,  — 
The  green  and  yellow  linnet. 

Well,  call  the  rose  the  queen  of  flowers, 

And  boast  of  that  of  Sharon, 
Of  lilies  like  to  marble  cups, 

And  the  golden  rod  of  Aaron  : 

I  care  not  how  these  flowers  may  be 

Beloved  of  man  and  woman  ; 
The  broom  it  is  the  flower  for  me, 

That  groweth  on  the  common. 

0  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom  ! 

The  ancient  poet  sung  it, 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 

To  he  at  rest  among  it. 

MARY  HOWITT. 


VIOLETS. 

Welcome,  maids  of  honor  ! 

You  do  bring 

In  the  Spring, 
And  wait  upon  her. 

She  has  virgins  many, 

Fresh  and  fair ; 

Yet  you  are 
More  sweet  than  any. 

Y'  are  the  maiden  Posies, 

And,  so  graced, 

To  be  placed, 
'Fore  damask  roses. 


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367 


Yet  though  thus  respected, 

By  and  by 

Ye  do  lie, 
Poor  girls,  neglected. 

Robert  Herrick. 


THE  VIOLET. 

0  faint,  delicious,  springtime  violet ! 

Thine  odor,  like  a  key, 
Turns  noiselessly  in  memory's  wards  to  let 

A  thought  of  sorrow  free. 

The  breath  of  distant  fields  upon  my  brow 
Blows  through  that  open  door 

The  sound  of  wind-borne  bells,  more  sweet  and 
low, 
And  sadder  than  of  yore. 

It  comes  afar,  from  that  beloved  place, 

And  that  beloved  hour, 
When  life  hung  ripening  in  love's  golden  grace, 

Like  grapes  above  a  bower. 

A  spring  goes  singing  through  its  reedy  grass  ; 

The  lark  sings  o'er  my  head, 
Drowned  in  the  sky  —  0,  pass,  ye  visions,  pass  ! 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  — 

Why  hast  thou  opened  that  forbidden  door, 

From  which  I  ever  flee  ? 
0  vanished  joy  !  0  love,  that  art  no  more, 

Let  my  vexed  spirit  be  ! 

0  violet !  thy  odor  through  my  brain 

Hath  searched,  and  stung  to  grief 

This  sunny  day,  as  if  a  curse  did  stain 

Thy  velvet  leaf. 

William  W.  story. 


TO   THE   DAISY. 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Sweet  daisy  !  oft  I  talk  to  thee. 

For  thou  art  worthy. 
Thou  unassuming  commonplace 
Of  nature,  with  thai  homely  face, 
And  yel  with  something  of  a  grace 

Which  love  makes  for  thee  ! 

Oft  "ii  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

1  sit  and  play  with  similes, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising  ; 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  nr  blame, 
As  is  the  humor  of  the  game, 

"While  I  am  gazing. 


A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port ; 

Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations ; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest,  — 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 

Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 

That  thought  comes  next,  —  and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over, 
The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold  ! 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold 
That  spreads  itself,  some  fairy  bold 

In  fight  to  cover. 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar,  — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star, 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee  ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest  ;  — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 

Who  shall  reprove  thee  ! 

Sweet  flower  !  for  by  that  name  at  last, 

When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 

I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet,  silent  creature  ! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE   DAISY. 

Star  of  the  mead  !  sweet  daughter  of  the  day, 
Whose  opening  flower  invites  the  morning  ray, 
From  the  moist  cheek  and  bosom's  chilly  fold 
To  kiss  the  tears  of  eve,  the  dew-drops  cold  ! 
Sweet  daisy,  flower  of  love,  when  birds  are  paired, 
'Tis  sweet  to  see  thee,  with  thy  bosom  bared, 
Smiling  in  virgin  innocence  serene, 
Thy  pearly  crown  above  thy  vest  of  green. 
The  lark  with  sparkling  eye  and  rustling  wing 
Rejoins  his  widowed  mate  in  early  spring, 
Ami  as  lie  prunes  his  plumes  of  russet  hue, 
Swears  on  thy  maiden  blossom  to  be  true. 
Oft  have  I  watched  thy  (dosing  buds  at  eve, 
Which  forthe parting  sunbeams  seemed  to  grieve ; 
And  when  gay  morning  gill  the  dew-hrighl  plain, 
Seen  them  unclasp  their  folded  leaves  again  ; 
Nor  he  who  sung  "  The  daisy  is  so  sweet !  " 
More  dearly  loved  thy  pearly  form  to  greet, 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


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When  on  his  scarf  the  knight  the  daisy  bound, 
And  dames  to  tourneys  shone  with  daisies  crowned, 
And  fays  forsook  the  purer  fields  above, 
To  hail  the  daisy,  flower  of  faithful  love, 


Dr.  Leyden. 


TO   A   MOUNTAIN   DAISY, 

ON   TURNING   ONE   DOWN   WITH    THE     PLOUGH,    IN   APRIL, 
1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou 's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour, 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  sto\rre 

Thy  slender  stem  ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonny  gem. 

Alas  !  it 's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonny  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
When  upward  springing,  blithe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 


Caidd  blew  the  bitter  biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 

0'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise  ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred  ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er  ! 


Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink, 
Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruined,  sink  ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 

That  fate  is  thine,  —  no  distant  date  : 

Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 

Robert  burns. 


THE  DAISY. 

There  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower 
With  silver  crest  and  golden  eye, 

That  welcomes  every  changing  hour, 
And  weathers  every  sky. 

The  prouder  beauties  of  the  field 
In  gay  but  quick  succession  shine  ; 

Race  after  race  their  honors  yield, 
They  flourish  and  decline. 

But  this  small  flower,  to  Nature  dear, 
While  moons  and  stars  their  courses  run, 

Inwreathes  the  circle  of  the  year, 
Companion  of  the  sun. 

It  smiles  upon  the  lap  of  May, 

To  sultry  August  spreads  its  charm, 

Lights  pale  October  on  his  way, 
And  twines  December's  arm. 

The  purple  heath  and  golden  broom 
On  moory  mountains  catch  the  gale  ; 

O'er  lawns  the  lily  sheds  perfume, 
The  violet  in  the  vale. 

But  this  bold  floweret  climbs  the  hill, 
Hides  in  the  forest,  haunts  the  glen, 

Plays  on  the  margin  of  the  rill, 
Peeps  round  the  fox's  den. 

Within  the  garden's  cultured  round 
It  shares  the  sweet  carnation's  bed  ; 

And  blooms  on  consecrated  ground 
In  honor  of  the  dead. 

The  lambkin  crops  its  crimson  gem  ; 

The  wild  bee  murmurs  on  its  breast ; 
The  blue-fly  bends  its  pensile  stem 

Light  o'er  the  skylark's  nest. 


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POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


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'T  is  Flora's  page,  —  in  every  place, 
In  every  season,  fresh  and  fair  ; 

It  opens  with  perennial  grace, 
And  blossoms  everywhere. 

On  waste  and  woodland,  rock  and  plain, 
Its  humble  buds  unheeded  rise  ; 

The  rose  has  but  a  summer  reign  ; 
The  daisy  never  dies  ! 

James  Montgomery. 


DAFFODILS. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd,  — 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I,  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  ; 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company  ; 

I  ^ized  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

William  Wordsworth. 


DAFFODILS. 

Fam:  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 

Has  not  attained  its  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hastening  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song  ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 
We  have  as  short  a  spring  ; 


As  quick  a  growth,  to  meet  decay, 
As  you  or  anything. 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 


Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE   GRASS. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 

By  the  dusty  roadside, 

On  the  sunny  hillside, 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 

In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  everywhere  ; 

All  round  the  open  door, 

Where  sit  the  aged  poor  ; 

Here  where  the  children  play, 

In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you  '11  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart 

Toiling  his  busy  part,  — 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming  ; 
For  in  the  starry  night, 
And  the  glad  morning  light, 

I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 
More  welcome  than  the  flowers 
In  summer's  pleasant  hours  ; 
The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 
And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 

To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  ; 
When  you  're  numbered  with  the  dead 

In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 
In  the  happy  spring  I  '11  come 

And  dn'k  your  silent  home,  — 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 
My  humble  song  of  praise 

Most  joyfully  I  raise 
To  Him  at  whose  command 
I  beautify  the  land, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Sarah  Roberts. 


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POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


THE  IVY  GREEN. 

0,  A  dainty  plant  is  tlie  ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  ! 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  walls  must  be  crumbled,  the  stones  decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim  ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

East  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 

And  a  stanch  old  heart  has  he  ! 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak-tree  ! 
And  slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
And  he  joyously  twines  and  hugs  around 

The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

"Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decayed, 

And  nations  scattered  been  ; 
But  the  stout  old  ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past ; 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 

Is  the  ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Charles  Dickens. 


THE   DEATH   OF   THE   FLOWERS. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of 
the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows 
brown  and  sear. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn 
leaves  lie  dead  ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rab- 
bit's tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the 
shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all 
the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that 

lately  sprang  and  stood 
In  brighter   light  and    softer  airs,  a  beauteous 

sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves  ;  the  gentle  race 

of  flowers 


Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds  with  the  fair  and 

good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie  ;  but  the  cold 

November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely 

ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long 
ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the 
summer  glow  ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in 
the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  au- 
tumn beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as 
falls  the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from 
upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still 

such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their 

winter  home  ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though 

all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the 

rill, 
The  south-wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose 

fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the 

stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful 

beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded 

by  my  side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the 

forests  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a 

life  so  brief ; 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young 

friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the 

flowers. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS. 

God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak-tree  and  the  cedar-tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 
We  might  have  had  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours, 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  had  no  flowers. 


f& 


~B 


AUTUMN     DAYS. 

"  II 'hoi  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees  are  still. 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill.'' 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


371 


a 


Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made, 

All  dyed  with  rainbow-light, 
All  fashioned  with  supremest  grace 

Upspringing  day  and  night  :  — 
Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 

And  on  the  mountains  high, 
And  in  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not,  — 

Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ?  — 
To  minister  delight  to  man, 

To  beautify  the  earth  ; 
To  comfort  man,  —  to  whisper  hope, 

Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim, 
For  who  so  careth  for  the  flowers 

Will  care  much  more  for  him  ! 

MARY  HOWITT. 


BETROTHED   ANEW. 

The  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air, 
And  balmy  days  their  guerdons  bring  ; 

The  Earth  again  is  young  and  fair, 
And  amorous  with  musky  Spring. 

The  golden  nurslings  of  the  May 

In  splendor  strew  the  spangled  green, 

And  hues  of  tender  beauty  play, 
Entangled  where  the  willows  lean. 

Mark  how  the  rippled  currents  flow  ; 

"What  lustres  on  the  meadows  lie  ! 
And  hark  !  the  songsters  come  and  go, 

And  trill  between  the  earth  and  sky. 

Who  told  us  that  the  years  had  fled, 
Or  borne  afar  our  blissful  youth  ? 

Such  joys  are  all  about  us  spread, 
We  know  the  whisper  was  not  truth. 

The  birds  that  break  from  grass  and  grove 
Sing  every  carol  that  they  sung 

When  first  our  veins  were  rich  with  love, 
And  May  her  mantle  round  us  flung. 

0  fresh-lit  dawn  !  immortal  life  ! 

<i  Earth's  betrothal,  sweet  and  true, 
With  whose  delights  our  souls  are  rife, 

And  aye  their  vernal  vows  renew  ! 

Then,  darling,  walk  with  me  this  morn  ; 

Lei  your  brown  tresses  drink  its  sheen  ; 
These  violets,  within  them  worn, 

Of  floral  fays  shall  make  you  queen. 

What  though  there  comes  a  time  of  pain 
When  autumn  winds  forhode  decay  ? 

The  days  of  love  are  born  again  ; 
That  fabled  time  is  far  away  ' 


And  never  seemed  the  land  so  fair 

As  now,  nor  birds  such  notes  to  sing, 

Since  first  within  your  shining  hair 

I  wove  the  blossoms  of  the  spring. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  SUMMER  DAY. 

0  perfect  Light,  which  shaid  away 
The  darkness  from  the  light, 

And  set  a  ruler  o'er  the  day, 
Another  o'er  the  night  ; 

Thy  glory,  when  the  day  forth  flies, 

More  vively  does  appear, 
Than  at  midday  unto  our  eyes 

The  shining  sun  is  Clear. 

The  shadow  of  the  earth  anon 

Removes  and  drawis  by, 
While  in  the  east,  when  it  is  gone, 

Appears  a  clearer  sky. 

Which  soon  perceive  the  little  larks, 

The  lapwing  and  the  snipe, 
And  time  their  songs,  like  Nature's  clerks, 

O'er  meadow,  muir,  and  stripe. 

Our  hemisphere  is  polished  clean, 
And  lightened  more  and  more  ; 

While  everything  is  clearly  seen, 
Which  seemed  dim  before  ; 

Except  the  glistering  astres  bright, 
Which  all  the  night  were  clear, 

Offusked  with  a  greater  light 
No  longer  do  appear. 

The  golden  globe  incontinent 

Sets  up  his  shining  head, 
And  o'er  the  earth  and  firmament 

Displays  his  beams  abread. 

For  joy  the  birds  with  boulden  throats 

Against  his  visage  sheen 
Take  up  their  kindly  music  notes 

In  woods  and  gardens  green. 

The  dew  upon  the  tender  crops, 
Like  pearles  white  and  round, 

Or  like  to  melted  silver  drops, 
Refreshes  all  the  ground. 

The  misty  reek,  the  clouds  of  rain 
From  tops  of  mountains  skails, 

Clear  are  the  highest  hills  and  plain, 
The  vapors  take  the  vales. 


U 


372, 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


-a 


The  ample  heaven,  of  fabric  sure, 

In  cleanness  does  surpass 
The  crystal  and  the  silver  pure, 

Or  clearest  polished  glass. 

The  time  so  tranquil  is  and  still, 
That  nowhere  shall  ye  find, 

Save  on  a  high  and  barren  MIL 
The  air  of  peeping  wind. 

All  trees  and  simples,  great  and  small, 

That  balmy  leaf  do  bear, 
Than  they  were  painted  on  a  wall, 

No  more  they  move  or  steir. 

Calm  is  the  deep  and  purple  sea, 
Yea,  smoother  than  the  sand  ; 

The  waves,  that  weltering  wont  to  be, 
Are  stable  like  the  land. 

So  silent  is  the  cessile  air, 

That  every  cry  and  call, 
The  hills  and  dales  and  forest  fair 

Again  repeats  them  all. 

The  flourishes  and  fragrant  flowers, 
Through  Phoebus'  fostering  heat, 

Refreshed  with  dew  and  silver  showers, 
Cast  up  an  odor  sweet. 

The  clogged  busy  humming  bees, 

That  never  think  to  drone, 
On  flowers  and  flourishes  of  trees, 

Collect  their  liquor  brown. 

The  sun,  most  like  a  speedy  post, 
With  ardent  course  ascends  ; 

The  beauty  of  the  heavenly  host 
Up  to  our  zenith  tends  ; 

Not  guided  by  a  Phae'thon, 

Not  trained  in  a  chair, 
But  by  the  high  and  holy  One, 

Who  does  all  where  empire. 

The  burning  beams  down  from  his  face 

So  fervently  can  beat, 
That  man  and  beast  now  seek  a  place 

To  save  them  from  the  heat. 

The  herds  beneath  some  leafy  tree, 
Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie  ; 

The  stable  ships  upon  the  sea 
Tend  up  their  sails  to  dry. 


With  gilded  eyes  and  open  wings, 
The  cock  his  courage  shows  ; 

With  claps  of  joy  his  breast  he  dings, 
And  twenty  times  he  crows. 

The  dove  with  whistling  wings  so  blue, 

The  winds  can  fast  collect, 
Her  purple  pens  turn  many  a  hue 

Against  the  sun  direct. 

Now  noon  is  went ;  gone  is  midday, 

The  heat  does  slake  at  last, 
The  sun  descends  down  west  away, 

For  three  o'clock  is  past. 

The  rayons  of  the  sun  we  see 

Diminish  in  their  strength, 
The  shade  of  every  tower  and  tree 

Extended  is  in  length. 

Great  is  the  calm,  for  everywhere 

The  wind  is  settling  down, 
The  reek  throws  right  up  in  the  air 

From  every  tower  and  town. 

The  gloaming  comes,  the  day  is  spent, 

The  sun  goes  out  of  sight, 
And  painted  is  the  Occident 

With  purple  sanguine  bright. 

The  scarlet  nor  the  golden  thread, 

Who  would  their  beauty  try, 
Are  nothing  like  the  color  red 

And  beauty  of  the  sky. 

Our  west  horizon  circular, 

From  time  the  sun  be  set, 
Is  all  with  rubies,  as  it  were, 

Or  roses  red  o'erfret. 

What  pleasure  were  to  walk  and  see, 

Endlong  a  river  clear, 
The  perfect  form  of  every  tree 

Within  the  deep  appear. 

0,  then  it  were  a  seemly  thing, 

While  all  is  still  and  calm, 
The  praise  of  God  to  play  and  sing 

With  cornet  and  with  shalm  ! 

All  laborers  draw  home  at  even, 

And  can  to  other  say, 
Thanks  to  the  gracious  God  of  heaven, 

Which  sent  this  summer  day. 

ALEXANDER  HUME. 


-4 


a- 


a 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND  WAR. 


fa- 


J 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND  WAR. 


a 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 

Daughter  of  God  !  that  sit'st  on  high 
Amid  the  dances  of  the  sky, 
And  guidest  with  thy  gentle  sway 
The  planets  on  their  tuneful  way  ; 

Sweet  Peace  !  shall  ne'er  again 
The  smile  of  thy  most  holy  face, 
From  thine  ethereal  dwelling-place, 
Rejoice  the  wretched,  wearjr  race 

Of  discord-breathing  men  ? 
Too  long,  0  gladness-giving  Queen  ! 
Thy  tarrying  in  heaven  has  been  ; 
Too  long  o'er  this  fair  blooming  world 
The  flag  of  blood  has  been  unfurled, 

Polluting  God's  pure  day  ; 
Whilst,  as  each  maddening  people  reels, 
War  onward  drives  his  scythed  wheels, 
And  at  his  horses'  bloody  heels 

Shriek  Murder  and  Dismay. 

Oft  have  I  wept  to  hear  the  cry 

Of  widow  wailing  bitterly  ; 

To  see  the  parent's  silent  tear 

For  children  fallen  beneath  the  spear  ; 

And  1  have  felt  so  sore 
The  sense  of  human  guilt  and  woe, 
That  I,  in  Virtue's  passioned  glow, 
Have  cursed  (my  soul  was  wounded  so) 

The  shape  of  man  I  bore  ! 
Then  come  from  thy  serene  abode, 
Thou  gladness-giving  child  of  God  ! 
And  cease  the  world's  ensanguined  strife, 
And  reconcile  my  soul  to  life  ; 

Fur  much  1  long  to  see, 
Ere  1  shall  to  the  grave  descend, 
Thy  hand  its  blessed  branch  extend, 
And  to  tin'  world's  remotest  end 

Wave  Love  and  Harmony  ! 

William  Thnnent. 


HYMN   OF    PEACE. 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered  too  long  ! 
Spread  thy  white  wings  to  the  sunshine  of  love! 


Come  while  our  voices  are  blended  in  song,  — 
Fly  to  our  ark  like  the  storm-beaten  dove, 

Fly  to  our  ark  on  the  wings  of  the  dove, 
Speed  o'er  the  far-sounding  billows  of  song, 

Crowned  with  thine  olive-leaf  garland  of  love  ; 
Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  waited  too  long  ! 

Brothers,  we  meet  on  this  altar  of  thine, 

Mingling  the  gifts  we  have  gathered  for  thee, 
Sweet  with  the  odors  of  myrtle  and  pine, 

Breeze  of  the  prairie  and  breath  of  the  sea  ! 
Meadow  and  mountain,  and  forest  and  sea  ! 

Sweet  is  the  fragrance  of  myrtle  and  pine, 
Sweeter  the  incense  we  offer  to  thee, 

Brothers,  once  more  round  this  altar  of  thine  ! 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  answer  the  strain  ! 

Hark  !  a  new  birth-song  is  filling  the  sky  ! 
Loud  as  the  storm-wind  that  tumbles  the  main, 

Bid  the  full  breath  of  the  organ  reply  ; 
Let  the  loud  tempest  of  voices  reply  ; 

Poll  its  longsurge  like  the  earth-shaking  main  ! 
Swell  the  vast  song  till  it  mounts  to  the  sky  ! 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  echo  the  strain  ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave,  — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still  ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

Anil  bell  of  wandering  kine,  arc  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain  ; 


■# 


a 


374 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


ft 


Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry,  — 
0,  be  it  never  heard  again  ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought  ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year  ; 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot ; 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown,  —  yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn  ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Trath,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again,  — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here  ! 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 

Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 

The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   RETURN. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler  air, 
And  take  possession  of  my  father's  chair  ! 
Beneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame, 
Appeared  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 
Cut  forty  years  before  !     The  same  old  clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart  a  shock 
I  never  can  forget.     A  short  breeze  sprung, 
And  while  a  sigh  was  trembling  on  my  tongue, 
Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs  behind, 
And  up  they  flew  like  banners  in  the  wind  ; 
Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down  they  went, 
And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I  had  spent 
Far  from  my  native  land.     That  instant  came 
A  robin  on  the  threshold  ;  though  so  tame, 
At  first  he  looked  distrustful,  almost  shy, 
And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast  eye, 
And  seemed  to  say,  —  past  friendship  to  renew,  — 


"  Ah  ha  !  old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you  ? " 
While  thus  I  mused,  still  gazing,  gazing  still, 
On  beds  of  moss  that  spread  the  window-sill, 
I  deemed  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had  been  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and  green, 
And  guessed  some  infant  hand  had  placed  it  there, 
And  prized  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 
Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling  rose  ; 
My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose  ; 
I  could  not  reckon  minutes,  hours,  nor  years, 
But  rose  at  once,  and  bursted  into  tears  ; 
Then,  like  a  fool,  confused,  sat  down  again, 
And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame  and  pain  ; 
I  raved  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost, 
And  glory's  quagmire,  where  the  brave  are  lost. 
On  carnage,  fire,  and  plunder  long  I  mused, 
And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  I  had  used. 

Two  shadows  then  I  saw,  two  voices  heard, 
One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a  child's  appeared. 
In  stepped  my  father  with  convulsive  start, 
And  in  an  instant  clasped  me  to  his  heart. 
Close  by  him  stood  a  little  blue-eyed  maid  ; 
And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man  said, 
' '  Come  hither,  Nancy,  kiss  me  once  again  ; 
This  is  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home  from  Spain. " 
The  child  approached,  and  with  her  fingers  light 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of  sight. 
But  why  thus  spin  my  tale,  —  thus  tedious  be  ? 
Happy  old  soldier  !  what 's  the  world  to  me  ? 

ROBERT  Bl-OOMFIELD. 


SOLDIER,   REST  !    THY   WARFARE   O'ER. 

FROM    "THE    LADY    OF   THE    LAKE." 

Soldier,  rest  !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking  ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing, 
Soldier,  rest  !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more  ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here  ; 


& 


•B 


3- 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


■a 


375 


Here  's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping. 

Huntsman,  rest  !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumberous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying  ; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest  !  thy  chase  is  done, 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For,  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


DRIVING   HOME   THE   COWS. 

Oft  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane  ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace  ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go  ; 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp. 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat 
Willi  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  colli  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
.Ami  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom  ; 

Ami  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

Fur  news  hid  come  to  tin'  lonely  farm 
Thai  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain  ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late, 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done  ; 

But  down  the  lane,  as  lie  opened  the  gate, 
He  saw  them  coming  one  by  one, — 


Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind  ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass,  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue  ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again  ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes  ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb ; 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

Anonymous. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   BLENHEIM. 

[The  battle  of  Blenheim  in  Bavaria  was  fought  August  13,  1704, 
between  the  troops  of  the  English  and  Austrians  on  one  side,  under 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  and  the  French  and 
Bavarians  on  the  other  side,  led  by  Marshal  Tallart  and  the  Elec- 
tor of  Bavaria.  The  latter  party  was  defeated,  and  the  schemes 
of  Louis  XIV.  of  France  were  materially  checked  therebv.l 


It  was  a  summer  evening,  — 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

ir. 
She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found  ; 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 
That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

in. 
Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 
Who  stood  expectant  by  : 

And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And,  with  a  natural  sigh,  — 
"T  is  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

IV. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 
For  there  's  many  hereabout  ; 

And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough. 
The  ploughshare  turns  them  out  ; 

For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 

"Were  slain  in  the  great  victory." 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAK. 


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V. 

"Now  tell  us  what  't  was  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  lie  cries  ; 
And  little  "Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes,  — 
"Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for. ' 

VI. 

"It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 

' '  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 

1  could  not  well  make  out ; 
But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  't  was  a  famous  victory. 

VII. 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

VIII. 

"With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide  ; 
And  many  a  childing  mother  there, 

And  new-born  baby  died  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

IX. 

"They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won,  — 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

x. 

"  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 
"  Why,  't  was  a  very  wicked  thing  !  " 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
"Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl  !  "  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

XI. 

"And  everybody  praised  the  duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ?  " 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he  ; 
"  But  't  was  a  famous  victory." 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


TUBAL   CAIN. 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might, 

In  the  days  when  earth  was  young  ; 
By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright, 

The  strokes  of  his  hammer  rung  : 
And  he  lifted  high  his  brawny  hand 

On  the  iron  glowing  clear, 
Till  the  sparks  rushed  out  in  scarlet  showers, 

As  he  fashioned  the  sword  and  the  spear. 
And  he  sang  :    ' '  Hurrah  for  my  handiwork  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  spear  and  the  sword  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  hand  that  shall  wield  them  well, 

For  he  shall  be  king  and  lord." 

To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a  one, 

As  he  wrought  by  his  roaring  fire, 
And  each  one  prayed  for  a  strong  steel  blade 

As  the  crown  of  his  desire  : 
And  he  made  them  weapons  sharp  and  strong, 

Till  they  shouted  loud  for  glee, 
And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearl  and  gold, 

And  spoils  of  the  forest  free. 
And  they  sang  :   ' '  Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Who  hath  given  us  strength  anew  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  smith,  hurrah  for  the  fire, 

And  hurrah  for  the  metal  true  !" 

But  a  sudden  change  came  o'er  his  heart, 

Ere  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
And  Tubal  Cain  was  filled  with  pain 

For  the  evil  he  had  done  ; 
He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate, 

Made  war  upon  their  kind, 
That  the  land  was  red  with  the  blood  they  shed, 

In  their  lust  for  carnage  blind. 
And  he  said  :   ' '  Alas  !  that  ever  I  made, 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  plan, 
The  spear  and  the  sword  for  men  whose  joy 

Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man  !  " 

And  for  many  a  day  old  Tubal  Cain 

Sat  brooding  o'er  his  woe  ; 
And  his  hand  forbore  to  smite  the  ore, 

And  his  furnace  smouldered  low. 
But  he  rose  at  last  with  a  cheerful  face, 

And  a  bright  courageous  eye, 
And  bared  his  strong  right  arm  for  work, 

While  the  quick  flames  mounted  high. 
And  he  sang  :   "  Hurrah  for  my  handiwork  !  " 

And  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air  ; 
"Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright  steel 
made,"  — 

And  he  fashioned  the  first  ploughshare. 

And  men,  taught  wisdom  from  the  past, 

In  friendship  joined  their  hands, 
Hung- the  sword  in  the  hall,  the  spear  on  the  wall, 

And  ploughed  the  willing  lands ; 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


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377 


And  sang  :   "  Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain  ! 

Our  stanch  good  friend  is  he  ; 
And  for  the  ploughshare  and  the  plough 

To  him  our  praise  shall  be. 
But  while  oppression  lifts  its  head, 

Or  a  tyrant  would  be  lord, 
Though  we  may  thank  him  for  the  plough, 


"We  '11  not  forget  the  sword 


!  " 

Charles  Mackav. 


BARCLAY   OF   URY. 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  laird  of  Ury  ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master  ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet  with  calm  and  stately  mien 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding  ; 
And  to  all  he  saw  and  heard 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  froward  : 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "  Ride  him  down  ! 
Push  him  !  prick  him  !     Through  the  town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward  !  " 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud  : 

"Barclay  !    Ho  !  a  Barclay!" 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle-tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly; 

"Who,  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Ciicd  aloud  :    "God  saw  us  ! 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle-dee] i  in  Lutzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Oustavus  ?  " 

"  Nay,  1  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Fry's  lord  ; 

"  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee. 
Passive  to  his  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  he  .slay  me. 


"Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"Woe  's  the  day,"  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly  shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity  ; 
"  Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city  ! 

"Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst,  we  '11  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers  !  " 

"  Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend,  — 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  !  " 

Quoth  the  laird  of  Ury  ; 
"  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 

"  Give  me  joy  that  in  his  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer  ; 
While  for  them  he  suffered  long. 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer  ? 

"  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all,  — 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me,  — 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me  ; 

"When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door  ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friends'  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving  ; 
But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 
And  his  love  with  theirs  accords 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Op  the  blackness  streaking  ; 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking  !  " 

So  the  laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  gates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen  ! 

Not  in  vain,  confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial  ! 
Every  age  on  him  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways 

Pours  its  sevenfold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter  ; 
And,  while  hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  —  that  never  yet 
Share  of  truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow  ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  seer, 

Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  future  borrow,  — 

Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 

And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 

John  Greenleaf  whittier. 


THE  SOLDIER'S   DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  — for  the  night-cloud  had 
lowered 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  over- 
powered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaringfagotthat  guarded  the  slain ; 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Mctliought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track  : 

'T  was  autumn,  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me 
back. 


I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 
In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was 
young ; 
I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 
And   knew  the   sweet   strain   that  the   corn- 
reapers  sung. 

Then   pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and   fondly  I 
swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never 
to  part ; 
My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fuluess  of 
heart. 

' '  Stay,  stay  with  us,  —  rest,  thou  art  weary  and 

worn  "  ; 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken    soldier  to 

stay ;  — 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  DRUMMER-BOY'S    BURIAL. 

All  day  long  the  storm  of  battle  through  the 

startled  valley  swept  ; 
All  night  long  the  stars  in  heaven  o'er  the  slain 

sad  vigils  kept. 

0  the  ghastly  upturned  faces  gleaming  whitely 
through  the  night  ! 

0  the  heaps  of  mangled  corses  in  that  dim  sepul- 
chral light  ! 

One  by  one  the  pale  stars  faded,  and  at  length 

the  morning  broke ; 
But  not  one  of  all  the  sleepers  on  that  field  of 

death  awoke. 

Slowly  passed  the  golden  hours  of  that  long  bright 

summer  day, 
And  upon  that  field   of  carnage  still  the   dead 

unburied  lay. 

Lay  there  stark  and  cold,  but  pleading  with  a 

dumb,  unceasing  prayer, 
For  a  little  dust  to  hide  them  from  the  staring 

sun  and  air. 

But  the  foeman  held   possession  of  that  hard- 
won  battle-plain, 
In  unholy  wrath  denying  even  burial  to  our  slain. 

Once  again  the  night  dropped  round  them,  — ■ 

night  so  holy  and  so  calm 
That  the  moonbeams  hushed  the  spirit,  like  the 

sound  of  prayer  or  psalm. 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


379 


■a 


Ou  a  couch  of  trampled  grasses,  just  apart  from  all 

the  rest, 
Lay  a  fair  young  boy,  with  small  hands  meekly 

folded  on  his  breast. 

Death  had  touched  him  very  gently,  and  he  lay 

as  if  in  sleep  ; 
Even  his  mother  scarce  had  shuddered  at  that 

slumber  calm  and  deep. 

For  a  smile  of  wondrous  sweetness  lent  a  radiance 

to  the  face, 
And  the  hand  of  cunning  sculptor  could  have 

added  naught  of  grace 

To  the  marble  limbs  so  perfect  in  their  passion- 
less repose, 

Robbed  of  all  save  matchless  purity  by  hard, 
unpitying  foes. 

And  the  broken  drum  beside  him  all  his  life's 

short  story  told  : 
How  he  did  his  duty  bravely  till  the  death-tide 

o'er  him  rolled. 

Midnight  came  with  ebon  garments  and  a  diadem 

of  stars, 
While  right  upward  in  the  zenith  hung  the  fiery 

planet  Mars. 

Hark  !  a  sound  of  stealthy  footsteps  and  of  voices 

whispering  low, 
Was   it  nothing  but  the   young  leaves,  or  the 

brooklet's  murmuring  flow  ? 

Clinging  closely  to  each  other,  striving  never  to 

look  round 
As   they   passed  with  silent   shudder   the  pale 

corses  on  the  ground, 

Came    two    little   maidens,  —  sisters,  —  with  a 

light  and  hasty  tread. 
And  a  look  upon  their  faces,  half  of  sorrow,  half 

of  dread. 

And    they   did    not   pause  nor  falter  till,  with 

throbbing  hearts,  they  stood 
Where    the   drummer-boy    was  lying    in   that 

partial  solitude. 

They  had  In-  ome  simple  garments  from 

t  heir  wardrobe's  scanty  store, 
Ami  two  heavy   iron     hovels  in   their  slender 

hands  they  bora. 

Then  they  quickly  knelt  beside  him,  crushing 
back  the  pitying  tears, 

For  they  had  no  time  for  weeping,  nor  for  any 
girlish  fears. 


And  they  robed  the  icy  body,  while  no  glow  of 

maiden  shame 
Changed  the  pallor  of  their  foreheads  to  a  flush 

of  lambent  flame. 

For  their  saintly  hearts  yearned  o'er  it  in  that 
hour  of  sorest  need, 

And  they  felt  that  Death  was  holy,  and  it  sanc- 
tified the  deed. 

But  they  smiled  and  kissed  each  other  when 
their  new  strange  task  was  o'er, 

And  the  form  that  lay  before  them  its  unwonted 
garments  wore. 

Then  with  slow  and  weary  labor  a  small  grave 

they  hollowed  out, 
And  they  lined  it  with  the  withered  grass  and 

leaves  that  lay  about. 

But  the  day  was  slowly  breaking  ere  their  holy 

work  was  done, 
And  in  crimson  pomp  the  morning  again  heralded 

the  sun. 

And  then  those  little  maidens  —  they  were 
children  of  our  foes  — 

Laid  the  body  of  our  drummer-boy  to  undis- 
turbed repose.  anonymous. 


NOT   ON   THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 

"To  fall  on  the  battle-field  fighting  for  my  dear  country,  — that 
would  not  be  hard."  —  THE  NEIGHBORS. 

0  no,  no,  — let  me  lie 

Not  on  a  field  of  battle  when  I  die  ! 

Let  not  the  iron  tread 
Of  the  mad  war-horse  crush  my  helmed  head  ; 

Nor  let  the  reeking  knife, 
That  I  have  drawn  against  a  brother's  life, 

lie  in  my  hand  when  Death 
Thunders  along,  and  tramples  me  beneath 

His  heavy  squadron's  heels, 
Or  gory  felloes  of  his  cannon's  wheels. 

From  such  a  dying  bed, 
Though  o'er  it  Moat  the  stripes  of  white  and  red, 

And  the  bald  eagle  brings 
The  clustered  stars  upon  his  wide-spread  wings 

To  sparkle  in  my  sight, 
0,  never  let  my  spirit  take  her  flight  ! 

1  know  thai  beauty's  eye 

Is  all  the  brighter  where  gay  pennants  fly, 

And  brazen  helmets  dance, 
And  sunshine  Bashes  on  the  lifted  lance; 

I  know  that  hards  have  sunjr. 
And  people  shouted  till  the  welkin  rung, 

In  honor  of  the  brave 
Who  on  the  battle-field  have  found  a  grave  ; 


-r? 


cfr 


3S0 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


-a 


I  know  that  o'er  their  bones 
Have  grateful  hands  piled  monumental  stones. 

Some  of  those  piles  1  've  seen  : 
The  one  at  Lexington  upon  the  green 

Where  the  first  blood  was  shed, 
And  to  my  country's  independence  led  ; 

And  others,  on  our  shore, 
The  "Battle  Monument"  at  Baltimore, 

And  that  on  Bunker's  Hill. 
Ay,  and  abroad,  a  few  more  famous  still ; 

Thy  "tomb,"  Themistocles, 
That  looks  out  yet  upon  the  Grecian  seas, 

And  which  the  waters  kiss 
That  issue  from  the  gulf  of  Salamis. 

And  thine,  too,  have  I  seen, 
Thy  mound  of  earth,  Patroclus,  robed  in  green, 

That,  like  a  natural  knoll, 
Sheep  climb  and  nibble  over  as  they  stroll, 

Watched  by  some  turbaned  boy, 
Upon  the  margin  of  the  plain  of  Troy. 

Such  honors  grace  the  bed, 
I  know,  whereon  the  warrior  lays  his  head, 

And  hears,  as  life  ebbs  out, 
The  conquered  flying,  and  the  concpieror's  shout  ; 

But  as  his  eye  grows  dim, 
What  is  a  column  or  a  mound  to  him  ? 

What,  to  the  parting  soul, 
The  mellow  note  of  bugles  ?     What  the  roll 

Of  drums  ?     No,  let  me  die 
AVhere  the  blue  heaven  bends  o'er  me  lovingly, 

And  the  soft  summer  air, 
As  it  goes  by  me,  stirs  my  thin  white  hair, 

And  from  my  forehead  dries 
The  death-damp  as  it  gathers,  and  the  skies 

Seem  waiting  to  receive 
My  soul  to  their  clear  depths  !  Or  let  me  leave 

The  world  when  round  my  bed 
Wife,  children,  weeping  friends  are  gathered, 

And  the  calm  voice  of  prayer 
And  holy  hymning  shall  my  soul  prepare 

To  go  and  be  at  rest 
With  kindred  spirits,  —  spirits  who  have  blessed 

The  human  brotherhood 
By  labors,  cares,  and  counsels  for  their  good. 

•  •  •  •  . 

JOHN  PlERPONT. 


t 


THE   DESTRUCTION   OF  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  weregleamingin  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on 

the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

I ike  the  leaves  of  the  foresl  when  summer  isgreen, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  ; 


Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath 

blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the 

blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed  ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and 

chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and   forevei 

grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostrils  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his 

pride  : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the 

sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  ! 

BYRON. 


WAR. 


Ah  !  whence  yon  glare, 
That  fires  the  arch  of  heaven  ? — that  dark  red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon  ?  The  stars  are  quenched 
In  darkness,  and  pure  and  spangling  snow 
Gleams  faintly  through  the  gloom  that  gathers 

round  ! 
Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  swift  and  deafening  peals 
In  countless  echoes  through  the  mountains  ring, 
Startling  pale  midnight  on  her  starry  throne  ! 
Now  swells  the  intermingling  din  ;  the  jar 
Frequent  and  frightful  of  the  bursting  bomb  ; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout, 
The  ceaseless  clangor,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage  ;  —  loud,  and  more  loud 
The  discord  grows ;  till  pale  death  shuts  the  scene, 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquered  draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud.  —  Of  all  the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there, 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health  ;  of  all  the  hearts 
That  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sunset  there, 
How  few  survive,  how  few  are  beating  now  ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous  pause  ; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widowed  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint  moan 
With  whichsomesoul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 


fr 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


381 


The  gray  morn 
Dawns  on  the  mournful  scene  ;  the  sulphurous 

smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  .slow  rolls  away, 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.    There  tracks  of  blood 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scattered  arms, 
And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  lineaments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dreadful 

path 
Of  the  outsallying  victors  ;  far  behind, 
Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city  stood. 
Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen,  — 
Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day 
Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 

War  is  the  statesman's  game,  the  priest's  delight, 
The  lawyer's  jest,  the  hired  assassin's  trade, 
And    to    those    royal    murderers    whose    mean 

thrones 
Are  bought  by  crimes  of  treachery  and  gore, 
The  bread  they  eat,  the  staff  on  which  they  lean. 
Guards,  garbed  in  blood-red  livery,  surround 
Their  palaces,  participate  the  crimes 
That  force  defends,  and  from  a  nation's  rage 
Secure  the  crown,  which  all  the  curses  reach 
That  famine,  frenzy,  woe,  and  penury  breathe. 
These  are  the  hired  bravos  who  defend 
The  tyrant's  throne. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


THE   PICKET-GUARD. 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing  :  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle  ; 
Not  an  officer  lost,  —  only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  fin'  sol* Hits  lie  peacefully  dreaming  ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  -the  light  of  th<'-  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  tin'  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping  ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard,  — for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread 
As  lie  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 

And  he  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  t  nindle-bed, 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 

Hi  musket  falls  slack  ;  his  face,  .lark  and  grim, 
Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 


As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 
For  their  mother,  — ■  may  Heaven  defend  her  t 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  — when  low,  murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken  ; 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree,  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary  ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  :   "  Ha  !    Mary,  good  by  !  " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night,  — 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river  ; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  — 
The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 

Mrs.  Howland. 


CIVIL   WAR. 

"  Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 
Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette  , 

Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet !  " 

"Ah,  captain  !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead, 
There  's  music  around  when  my  barrel  's  in 
tune  r" 

Crack  !  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 
And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"Now,  rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and 
snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel  first 
blood  ; 
A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud !" 

"  0  captain  !  I  staggered,  and  sunk  on  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  fare  of  that  fallen  vidette, 

For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet. 

"  But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket,  —  this  locket  of 
gold  ; 

An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way, 
Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 

Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 


9 


a- 


382 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


"Ha  !  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket  !  — 't  is  she, 
My  hrother's  young  bride,  —  and  the  fallen 
dragoon 
Was    her    husband  —    Hush !    soldier,    't   was 
Heaven's  decree, 
We  must  bury  him  there,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon  ! 

"  But,  hark  !  the  far  bugles  their  warnings  unite  ; 

War  is  a  virtue,  —  weakness  a  sin  ; 
There 's  a  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to-night ; 

Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in  !  " 

ANONYMOUS. 


LEFT   OX   THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 

What,  was  it  a  dream  ?  am  I  all  alone 

In  the  dreary  night  and  the  drizzling  rain  ? 

Hist  !  —  ah,  it  was  only  the  river's  moan  ; 
They  have  left  me  behind  with  the  mangled 
slain. 

Yes,  now  I  remember  it  all  too  well  ! 

We  met,  from  the  battling  ranks  apart  ; 
Together  our  weapons  flashed  and  fell, 

And  mine  was  sheathed  in  his  quivering  heart. 

In  the  cypress  gloom,  where  the  deed  was  done, 
It  was  all  too  dark  to  see  his  face  ; 

But  I  heard  his  death-groans,  one  by  one, 
And  he  holds  me  still  in  a  cold  embrace. 

He  spoke  but  once,  and  I  could  not  hear 

The  words  he  said,  for  the  cannon's  roar ; 

But  my  heart  grew  cold  with  a  deadly  fear,  — 

0  God  !  I  had  heard  that  voice  before  ! 

i 

Had  heard  it  before  at  our  mother's  knee, 

When  we  lisped  the  words  of  our  evening  prayer ! 

My  brother  !  would  I  had  died  for  thee,  — 
This  burden  is  more  than  my  soul  can  bear  ! 

I  pressed  my  lips  to  his  death-cold  cheek, 

And  begged  him  to  show  me,  by  word  or  sign, 

That  he  knew  and  forgave  me  :  he  could  notspeak, 
But  he  nestled  his  poor  cold  face  to  mine. 

The  blood  flowed  fast  from  my  wounded  side, 
And  then  for  a  while  I  forgot  my  pain, 

And  over  the  lakelet  we  seemed  to  glide 
In  our  little  boat,  two  boys  again. 

And  then,  in  my  dream,  we  stood  alone 
On  a  forest  path  where  the  shadows  fell ; 

And  1  heard  again  the  tremulous  tone, 
And  the  tender  words  of  his  last  farewell. 


But  that  parting  was  years,  long  years  ago, 
He  wandered  away  to  a  foreign  land  ; 

And  our  dear  old  mother  will  never  know 
That  he  died  to-night  by  his  brother's  hand. 

***** 

The  soldiers  who  buried  the  dead  away 

Disturbed  not  the  clasp  of  that  last  embrace, 

But  laid  them  to  sleep  till  the  judgment-day, 

Heart  folded  to  heart,  and  face  to  face. 

Sarah  T.  Bolton. 


MY  AUTUMN   WALK. 

On  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn 

The  amber  sunshine  lies  ; 
I  look  on  the  beauty  round  me, 

And  tears  come  into  my  eyes. 

For  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  meadows 
Blows  out  of  the  far  Southwest, 

Where  our  gallant  men  are  fighting, 
And  the  gallant  dead  are  at  rest. 

The  golden-rod  is  leaning, 
And  the  purple  aster  waves 

In  a  breeze  from  the  land  of  battles, 
A  breath  from  the  land  of  graves. 

Full  fast  the  leaves  are  dropping 
Before  that  wandering  breath  ; 

As  fast,  on  the  field  of  battle, 
Our  brethren  fall  in  death. 

Beautiful  over  my  pathway 

The  forest  spoils  are  shed  ; 
They  are  spotting  the  grassy  hillocks 

With  purple  and  gold  and  red. 

Beautiful  is  the  death -sleep 

Of  those  who  bi'avely  fight 
In  their  country's  holy  quarrel, 

And  perish  for  the  Right. 

But  who  shall  comfort  the  living, 
The  light  of  whose  homes  is  gone  : 

The  bride  that,  early  widowed, 
Lives  broken-hearted  on  ; 

The  matron  whose  sons  are  lying 
In  graves  on  a  distant  shore  ; 

The  maiden,  whose  promised  husband 
Comes  back  from  the  war  no  more  ? 

I  look  on  the  peaceful  dwellings 
Whose  windows  glimmer  in  sight, 

With  ci  oft  and  garden  and  orchard 
That  bask  in  the  mellow  light ; 


& 


.□ 


l'OEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


383 


■a 


And  I  know  that,  when  our  couriers 

With  news  of  victory  come, 
They  will  bring  a  bitter  message 

Of  hopeless  grief  to  some. 

Again  I  turn  to  the  woodlands, 

And  I  shudder  as  I  see 
The  mock-grape's  *  blood-red  banner 

Hung  out  on  the  cedar-tree  ; 

And  I  think  of  days  of  slaughter, 
And  the  night-sky  red  with  flames, 

On  the  Chattahoochee's  meadows, 
And  the  wasted  banks  of  the  James. 

0  for  the  fresh  spring-season, 

When  the  groves  are  in  their  prime, 

And  far  away  in  the  future 
Is  the  frosty  autumn-time  ! 

0  for  that  better  season, 

When  the  pride  of  the  foe  shall  yield, 
And  the  hosts  of  God  and  Freedom 
March  back  from  the  well-won  field  ; 

And  the  matron  shall  clasp  her  first-born 
With  tears  of  joy  and  pride  ; 

And  the  scarred  and  war-worn  lover 
Shall  claim  his  promised  bride  ! 

The  leaves  are  swept  from  the  branches  ; 

But  the  living  buds  are  there, 
With  folded  flower  and  foliage, 

To  sprout  in  a  kinder  air. 


October,  1864. 


WILLIAM   CULI.EN  BRYANT. 


BINGEN   OX   THE   RHINE. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was 

dearth  of  woman's  tears ; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his  life- 
blood  ebbed  away, 
And  bent,  with  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  he 

might  say. 
The  dying  soldier  faltered,  and  he  took  that  com- 

rade's  hand, 
And   he  said,  "  I  nevermore  shall  see  my  own, 

my  native  land  ; 
Take  n  message,  and  a  token,  to  some  distant 

friends  of  mine. 
For  I  was  burn  at  Bingen,  —  at  Bingen  on  the 

Rhine. 

*  Ampelopis,  mnck-srape.     I  have  here  literally  trans- 
the  botanical  name  of  the  Virginia  creeper,  an  ap- 
pellation  too  cumbrous  for  verse. 


"  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they 

meet  and  crowd  around, 
To  hear  my   mournful   story,   in   the   pleasant 

vineyard  ground, 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the 

day  was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the 

setting  sun  ; 
And,  mid  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some  grown 

old  in  wars,  — 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the 

last  of  many  scars  ; 
And  some  were  young,  and  suddenly  beheld  life's 

morn  decline,  — 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall  com- 
fort her  old  age  ; 

For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his 
home  a  cage. 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a 
child 

My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  strug- 
gles fierce  and  wild  ; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his 
scanty  hoard, 

I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  — but  kept 
my  father's  sword  ; 

And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright 
light  used  to  shine, 

On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen,  —  calm  Bingen 
on  the  Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with 

drooping  head, 
When  the  troops  come  marching  home  again 

with  glad  and  gallant  tread, 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and 

steadfast  eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not  afraid 

to  die  ; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my 

name 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame, 
And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  fa- 
ther's sword  and  mine) 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen,  —  dear  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine. 

"There  's  another,  — not  a  sister  ;  in  the  happy 
days  gone  by 

You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that 
sparkled  in  her  eye  ; 

Too  innocent  for  coquetry, — too  fond  for  idle 
scorning,  — 

0  friend  !  1  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  some- 
times heaviest  mourning ! 


tg_ 


~& 


a- 


384: 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


■ft 


Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for,  ere  the  moon 

be  risen, 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of 

prison),  — 
I  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow 

sunlight  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen,  — fair  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along,  —  I  heard, 
or  seemed  to  hear, 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus 
sweet  and  clear  ; 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slant- 
ing hill, 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening 
calm  and  still ; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed, 
with  friendly  talk, 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well- 
remembered  walk  ! 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in 
mine,  — 

But  we  '11  meet  no  more  at  Bingen,  —  loved  Bin- 
gen on  the  Rhine." 

His  trembling  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarse,  — his 

grasp  was  childish  weak,  — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  —  he  sighed  and 

ceased  to  speak  ; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of 

life  had  fled,  — 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  is  dead  ! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly 

she  looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody 

corses  strewn  ; 
Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light 

seemed  to  shine, 

As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen,  —  fair  Bingen  on 

the  Rhine. 

Caroline  E.  Norton. 


THE   TRUMPETS   OF   DOOLKARNEIN. 

[In  Eastern  history  are  two  Iskanders,  or  Alexanders,  who  are 
sometimes  confounded,  and  both  of  whom  are  called  Doolkar- 
nein,  or  the  Two-Horned,  in  allusion  to  their  subjugation  of  East 
and  U't-^t,  horns  being  an  Oriental  symbol  of  power. 

of  these  heroes  is  Alexander  of  Macedon  ;  the  other  a  con- 
queror of  more  ancient  times,  who  built  the  marvellous  series  of 
ramparts  on  Mount  Caucasus,  known  in  fable  as  the  wall  of  Gog 
and  Magog,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  people  of  the  North.  It  reached 
from  the  Euxine  Sea  to  the  Caspian,  where  its  flanks  originated  the 
subsequent  appellation  of  the  Caspian  Gates.] 

WITH  awful  walls,  far  glooming,  that  possessed 
The  ;  'twixt  the  snow-fed  Caspian  foun- 

tains, 
Doolkamein,  the  dread  lord  of  East  and  West, 
Shut  up  the  northern  nations  in  their  moun- 
tains ;  ^ 


And  upon  platforms  where  the  oak-trees  grew, 
Trumpets  he  set,  huge  beyond  dreams  of  won- 
der, 
Craftily  purposed,  when  his  arms  withdrew, 
To  make  him  thought  still  housed  there,  like 
the  thunder : 
And  it  so  fell ;  for  when  the  winds  blew  right, 
They  woke  their  trumpets  to  their  calls  of  might. 

Unseen,  but  heard,  their  calls  the  trumpets  blew, 
Ringing  the  granite  rocks,  their  only  bearers, 
Till  the  long  fear  into  religion  grew, 

And  nevermore  those  heights  hadhuman  darers. 
Dreadful  Doolkarnein  was  an  earthly  god  ; 
His  walls  but  shadowed   forth   his   mightier 
frowning ; 
Armies  of  giants  at  his  bidding  trod 

From   realm   to   realm,  king  after  king  dis- 
crowning. 
When  thunder  spoke,  or  when  the  earthquake 

stirred, 
Then,  muttering  in  accord,  his  host  was  heard. 

But   when   the   winters   marred   the   mountain 
shelves, 
And  softer  changes  came  with  vernal  mornings, 
Something  had  touched  the  trumpets'  lofty  selves, 
And  less  and  less  rang  forth  their  sovereign 
warnings  ; 
Fewer  and  feebler  ;  as  when  silence  spreads 
In  plague-struck  tents,  where  haughty  chiefs, 
left  dying, 
Fail  by  degrees  upon  their  angry  beds, 

Till,  one  by  one,  ceases  the  last  stern  sighing. 
One   by  one,  thus,  their  breath  the   trumpets 

drew, 
Till  now  no  more  the  imperious  music  blew. 

Is  he  then  dead  ?     Can  great  Doolkarnein  die  ? 

Or  can  his  endless  hosts  elsewhere  be  needed  ' 
Were  the  great  breaths  that  blew  his  minstrelsy 

Phantoms,  that  faded  as  himself  receded  ? 
Or  is  he  angered  ?     Surely  he  still  comes  ; 

This  silence  ushers  the  dread  visitation  ; 
Sudden  will  burst  the  torrent  of  his  drums, 

And  then  will  follow  bloody  desolation. 
So  did  fear  dream  ;  though  now,  with  not  a  sound 
To  scare  good  hope,  summer  had  twice  crept  round. 

Then  gathered  in  a  band,  with  lifted  eyes, 

The   neighbors,  and  those  silent  heights  as- 
cended. 
Giant,  nor  aught  blasting  their  bold  emprise, 
They  met,  though  twice  they  halted,  breath 
suspended  : 
Once,  at  a  coming  like  a  god's  in  rage 

With  thunderous  leaps,  — but  't  was  the  piled 
snow,  falling ; 


m- 


fH- 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   AVAR. 


3So 


And  once,  when  in  the  woods  an  oak,  for  age, 

Fell  dead,  the  silence  with  its  groan  appalling. 
At  last  they  came  where  still,  in  dread  array, 
As  though  they  still  m  ight  speak,  the  trumpets  lay. 

Unhurt  they  lay,  like  caverns  above  ground, 

The  rifted  rocks,  for  hands,  about  them  clinging, 
Their  tubes  as  straight,  their  mighty  mouths  as 
round 
And  firm  as  when  the  rocks  were  first  set  ring- 
ing. 
Fresh  from  their  unimaginable  mould 

They  might  have  seemed,  save  that  the  storms 
had  stained  them 
With  a  rich  rust,  that  now,  with  gloomy  gold 
In  the  bright  sunshine,  beauteously  engrained 
them. 
Breathless  the  gazers  looked,  nigh  faint  for  awe, 
Then  leaped,  then  laughed.     What  was  it  now 
they  saw  ? 

Myriads  of  birds.     Myriads  of  birds,  that  filled 
The  trumpetsallwithnestsandnestlingvoices  ! 
The  great,  huge,  stormy  music  had  been  .stilled 
By  the  soft  needs  that  nursed  those  small,  sweet 
noises  ! 
0  thou  Doolkarnein,  where  is  now  thy  wall  ? 

Where  now  thy  voice  divine  and  all  thy  forces  ? 
Great  was  thy  cunning,  but  its  wit  was  small 
Compared    with   nature's   least   and  gentlest 
courses. 
Fears  and   false  creeds  may  fright   the   realms 

awhile  ; 
But  heaven  and  earth  abide  their  time,  and  smile. 

LEIGH   HUNT. 


THE   KNIGHT'S   TOMB. 

WHERE  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn  ? 
Where  may  the  grave  of  thai  good  man  be  ?  — 
Bythe  side  of  a  spring,  on  the  breast  ofHelvellyn, 
Under  the  twigs  of  a  young  birch-tree  ! 
The  oak  that  in  summer  was  sweet  to  hear, 
A  nil  rustled  its  leaves  in  the  fall  of  the  year. 
And  whistled  and  roared  in  the  winter  alone, 
!    gone,     -and  the  bircli  in  its  stead  is  grown. — 
The  knight's  bones  are  dust, 
And  his  good  sword  rust  ;  — 
II      soul  is  with  the  saints,  I  trust. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


DIRGE   FOR  A   SOLDIER. 

CLOSE  bis  eyes  ;   his  work  is  done  ! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  ioemaii, 
hi  e  of  moon  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 


Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley  ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars  ?  — 
What  but  death  bemocking  folly  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye  ; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 

Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by  ; 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 

Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  -the  snow  ! 

What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know  ; 

Lay  him  low  ! 

George  Henry  Boker. 


THE   PRIVATE  OF   THE   BUFFS. 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  (piaffed,  and  swore  ; 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  looked  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown, 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewildered,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb, 

Bring  cord  or  axe  or  flame, 
He  only  knows  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seemed, 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go  ; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleamed, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow  ; 
The  smoke  above  his  father's  door 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung  ; 
Must  lie  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doomed  by  himself  so  young  ? 

Yes,  honor  calls  !  — with  strength  like  steel 

Hi'  put  tin-  vision  by  : 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel, 

An  English  lad  must  die. 


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TOEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


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And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed, 

Vain  those  all-shattering  guns, 
Unless  proud  England  keep  untamed 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons  ; 
So  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring,  — 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 

Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle. 


CAVALRY   SONG. 

FROM    "  ALICE   OF   MONMOUTH." 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 

Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle  ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 

Halt  ! 
Each  carbine  send  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight  ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome  : 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  Heaven  !    No  thoughts  of  home 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

Charge ! 
Cling  !  clang  !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall : 
Cut  left  and  right  ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall !  they  spread  in  broken  surges. 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

Wheel  ! 
The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall  : 
Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all  ! 
Home,  and  good  night  ! 

Edmund  Clarence  stedman. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   AGINCOURT. 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry  ; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry. 


And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marched  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour,  — 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power, 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending  ; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his' men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then  : 
Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed  ; 
Yet  have  we  well  begun,  — 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

And  for  myself,  quoth  he, 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be  ; 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain  ; 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell ; 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led  ; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped, 

Amongst  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear,  — 
A  braver  man  not  there  : 
0  Lord  !  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen  ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone  ; 
Armor  on  armor  shone  ; 
Drum  now  to  dram  did  groan, — 
To  hear  was  wonder  ; 


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POEMS   OF   TEACE   AND   WAR. 


58? 


ft 


t- 


That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake  ; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 
Thunder  to  thunder. 

"Well  it  thine  age  became, 
0  noble  Erpingham  ! 
Which  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces  ; 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses, 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather ; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilboes  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy  ; 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent  ; 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent ; 
Down  the  French  peasants  went ; 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o'erwhelni  it ; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Glo'ster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood, 

With  his  brave  brother,  — 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade  ; 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply  ; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 
Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 


Upon  St.  Crispin's  day 

Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 

Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry  ; 

0,  when  shall  Englishmen 

With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 

Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Hairy  ? 

Michael  Drayton. 


HOTSPUR'S  DESCRIPTION   OF  A  FOP. 

FROM    "  KING    HENRY    IV.,"    PART    I. 

But  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 

When  I  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil, 

Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 

Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dressed, 

Fresh  as  a  bridegroom  ;  and  his  chin,  new  reaped, 

Showed  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home  ; 

He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner  ; 

And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 

A  pounce t-box,  which  ever  and  anon 

He  gave  his  nose,  and  took  't  away  again  ;  — 

Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  there, 

Took  it  insnuff: — and stillhesmiledand  talked  ; 

And  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by, 

He  called  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 

To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 

Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 

With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 

He  questioned  me  ;  among  the  rest,  demanded 

My  prisoners  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 

I  then,  all  smarting,  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 

To  be  so  pestered  with  a  popinjay, 

Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 

Answered  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what,  — 

He  should,  or  lie  should  not  ;  for  he  made  me  mad 

To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 

And  talk  so  like  a  waiting  gentlewoman, 

Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds,  — God  save  the 

mark  !  — 
And  telling  me,  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 
Was  parmaceti  for  an  inward  bruise  ; 
And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 
That  villanous  saltpetre  should  be  digged 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroyed 
So  cowardly  ;  and,  but  for  these  vile  guns, 
He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 

SHAKKSPEARE. 


MARMION    AND   DOUGLAS. 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day, 
When  Marniion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride  ; 
lie  had  safe-Conduct  for  his  band, 


— dr 


Cj 


5SS 


TOEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


ft 


Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand, 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide  : 
The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  grace, 
"Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whispered  in  an  undertone, 
"  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown."  — 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 
But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu  :  — 
"Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said, 
"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stayed, 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand."  — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  :  — 
' '  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  sovereign's  will, 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peej-. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone, 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone,  — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own  ; 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp."  — 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 

And  —  "  This  to  me  !  "  he  said,  — 
"  An  't  were  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  ! 
And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  Peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state, 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate  : 
And,  Douglas,  more  1  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride, 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee,  thou  'rt  defied  ! 
And  if  thou  said'st  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here, 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !  " — 
On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth,  —  "  And  dar'st  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And  hop'st  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go  ? 
No,  by  St.  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no  ! 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms,  —  what,  Warder,  ho  ! 

Let  the  portcullis  fall."  — 
Lord  Marmion  turned,  —  well  was  his  need  !  — 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung  ; 


The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung  -. 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the.  drawbridge  flies, 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  ; 

Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  ; 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  reached  his  band, 

He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 

And  shoiit  of  loud  defiance  pours, 

And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

"Horse!    horse!"    the   Douglas   cried,    "and 

chase  ! " 
But  soon  he  reined  his  fury's  pace  : 
' '  A  royal  messenger  he  came, 
Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name. 

St.  Mary,  mend  my  fiery  mood  ! 

Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 

1  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 

'T  is  pity  of  him  too,"  he  cried  ; 

' '  Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride  : 

I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried." 

With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 

And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


MARMION   AT   FLODDEN    FIELD. 

fThe  battle  was  fought  in  September,  1513,  between  the  forces  of 
England  and  Scotland.  The  latter  were  worsted,  and  King  James 
slain  with  eight  thousand  of  his  men.  1-ord  Surrey  commanded  the 
English  troops.] 

A  moment  then  Lord  Marmion  stayed, 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  arrayed, 

Then  forward  moved  his  band, 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  by  a  cross  of  stone, 
That,  on  a  hillock  standing  lone, 

Did  all  the  field  command. 

Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 

Of  either  host  for  deadly  fray  ; 

Their  marshalled  lines  stretched  east  and  west, 

And  fronted  north  and  south, 
And  distant  salutation  past 

From  the  loud  cannon-mouth  ; 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rattle 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle, 

But  slow  and  far  between.  — 
The  hillock  gained,  Lord  Marmion  stayed  : 
"  Here,  by  this  cross,"  he  gently  said, 

' '  You  well  may  view  the  scene  ; 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare  : 
0,  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer  !  — 
Thou  wilt  not  ?  —  well,  —  no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare.  — 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


-a 


389 


You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  picked  archers  of  my  train  ; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard, 

To  Berwick  speed  amain.  — 
But,  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid, 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid, 

When  here  we  meet  again." 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there, 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair, 

Nor  heed  the  discontented  look 
From  either  squire  :  but  spurred  amain, 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle-plain, 

His  way  to  Surrey  took. 

Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill  ; 
On  which  (for  far  the  day  was  spent) 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent. 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew, 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view  ; 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
"  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay  ! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day.  — 
But,  see  !  look  up,  —  on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent."  — 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Volumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke  ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone, 
Announced  their  march  ;  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  their  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum, 
ToM  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come.  — 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes, 
Until  at  weapon-point  they  close.  — 
They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway  and  with  lance's  thrust ; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there, 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth 

And  fiends  in  upper  air : 
0  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 
Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ;  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  naught  descry. 

At  length  tli"  Freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  east  ; 
And,  fust,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Allow  the  brightening  cloud  appears  ; 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew, 
As  in  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 


Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ; 

But  naught  distinct  they  see  : 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain  ; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain  ; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly  : 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white, 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright, 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight  ; 

Although  against  them  come, 
Of  gallant  Gordons  man}*  a  one, 
And  many  a  stubborn  Highlandman, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntley  and  with  Home. 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle  ; 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied, 
'T  was  vain  :  —  But  Fortune,  on  the  right, 
With  fickle  smile,  cheered  Scotland's  fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

The  Howard's  lion  fell  ; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky  ! 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry  : 
Loud  were  the  clanging  blows  ; 
Advanced,  — forced  back,  — now  low,  now  nigh. 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose  ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear  :  — 
"By  heaven  and  all  its  saints,  1  swear, 

I  will  not  see  it  lost  ! 
Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads,  and  patter  prayer,  — 

I  gallop  to  the  host." 
Ami  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge, 
Made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large,  — 

The  rescued  banner  rose,  — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around, 
Like  pine-tree,  rooted  from  the  ground, 

It  sunk'  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  foo  ;  — yet  stayed, 
As  loath  t"  leave  the  helpless  maid, 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


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When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread, 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 

Lord  Matmion's  steed  rushed  by  ; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast, 

To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 

Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 

Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone  : 
Perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels  ; 

Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 

Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone.  — 
The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels  ;  — 

She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 

The  tumult  roared,  "  Is  Wilton  there  ?"  — 

They  fly,  or,  maddened  by  despair, 

Fight  but  to  die,  —  "  Is  Wilton  there?  " 
With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 

Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore, 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand  ; 
His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand. 
Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 
With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 
The  falcou-crest  and  plumage  gone, 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion  !  .  .  .  . 
Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace, 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face, 

Said,  —  "By  St.  George,  he  's  gone  ! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped,  — 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head  ! 

Good  night  to  Marmion. "  — 
"  Unnurtured  Blount  !  thy  brawling  cease  : 
He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace  ;   "  peace  !  " 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 
Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  :  — 
"  Where  's  Harry  Blount  ?  Fitz-Eustace  where  ? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 
ltedeem  my  pennon,  —  charge  again  ! 
Cry  —  '  Marmion  to  the  rescue  ! '  —  vain  ! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  !  — 
Y't  my  last  thought  is  England's:  —  fly, 
To  Dacre  hear  my  signet-ring  : 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring :  — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  ; 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field, 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield  : 
Edmund  is  down  ;  —  my  life  is  reft  ;  — 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire,  — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 


Or  victory  and  England  's  lost.  — 
Must  I  bid  twice  ?  —  hence,  varlets  !  fly  ! 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone  —  to  die." 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay  : 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmured,  —  "Is  there  none, 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst, 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring, 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 
To  slake  my  dying  thirst  ?  " 

0  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made  ; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !  — 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 
When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  ; 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears  ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side, 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew  ; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue, 
Where  shall  she  turn  !  —  behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 
Drink.  Warn,  pilgrim,  uvtnn.  nntf.  prag. 
JFor.  the.  ktnti.  soul.  of.  SjJbtl.  (5rcu. 

SSSho.  built,  tijts.  cross,  anti.  hull. 
She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head  ; 
A  pious  man  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave,  — 
"  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 
"  Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head  ?  " 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose,  — 
"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer  ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare  ; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !  "  — 

"Alas  !  "  she  said,  "  the  while,  — 
0,  think  of  your  immortal  weal  ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She—  died  at  Holy  Isle."  — 
Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground, 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE  AND   WAR. 


391 


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As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound  ; 

Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide 

In  torrents  from  his  wounded  side. 

"  Then  it  was  truth  !  "  he  said,  —  "I  knew 

That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true.  — 

I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 

The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day  ! 
For  wasting  lire,  and  dying  groan, 
And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  !  —  this  dizzy  trance,  — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

With  fruitless  labor,  Clara  bound, 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound  : 

The  monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 

Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear, 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear, 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
"  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groans  of  tlie 
dying/" 

So  the  notes  rung  :  — 
"Avoid  thee,  Fiend  ! — with  cruel  hand, 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  !  — 
O,  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine  : 

0,  think  on  faith  and  bliss  !  — 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this."  — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale, 

And  —  Stanley  !  was  the  cry  :  — ( 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  : 
With  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted  "Victory  !  — 

Charge,  Chester,  charge  !  On,  Stanley,  on  !" 

Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE   HEART   OF  THE    RRUCE. 

It  was  upon  an  April  morn, 
While  yet  the  frost  lay  hoar, 

We  heard  Lord  James's  bugle-horn 
Sound  by  the  rocky  shore. 


Then  down  we  went,  a  hundred  knights, 

All  in  our  dark  array, 
And  flung  our  armor  in  the  ships 

That  rode  within  the  bay. 

We  spoke  not  as  the  shore  grew  less, 

But  gazed  in  silence  back, 
Where  the  long  billows  swept  away 

The  foam  behind  our  track. 

And  aye  the  purple  hues  decayed 

Upon  the  fading  hill, 
And  but  one  heart  in  all  that  ship 

Was  tranquil,  cold,  and  still. 

The  good  Lord  Douglas  paced  the  deck, 

And  0,  his  face  was  wan  ! 
Unlike  the  flush  it  used  to  wear 

When  in  the  battle- van.  — 

"Come  hither,  come  hither,  my  trusty  knight, 

Sir  Simon  of  the  Lee  ; 
There  is  a  freit  lies  near  my  soul 

I  fain  would  tell  to  thee. 

"Thou  know'st  the  words  King  Robert  spoke 

Upon  his  dying  day : 
How  he  bade  take  his  noble  heart 

And  carry  it  far  away  ; 

"  And  lay  it  in  the  holy  soil 

Where  once  the  Saviour  trod, 
Since  he  might  not  bear  the  blessed  Cross, 

Nor  strike  one  blow  for  God. 

"  Last  night  as  in  my  bed  I  lay, 

I  dreamed  a  dreary  dream  :  — 
Methought  I  saw  a  Pilgrim  stand 

In  the  moonlight's  quivering  beam. 

"  His  robe  was  of  the  azure  dye, 

Snow-white  his  scattered  hairs, 
And  even  such  a  cross  he  bore 

As  good  St.  Andrew  bears. 

"  '  Why  go  ye  forth,  Lord  James,'  he  said, 

'  With  spear  and  belted  brand  ! 
Why  do  you  take  its  dearest  pledge 

From  this  our  Scottish  land  ' 

"  '  The  sultry  breeze  of  Galilee 
Creeps  through  its  groves  of  palm, 

The  olives  on  the  Holy  Mount 
Stand  glittering  in  the  calm. 

"  '  But 't  is  not  there  that  Scotland's  heart 

Shall  rest  by  Cod's  decree, 
Till  the  great  angel  calls  the  dead 

To  rise  from  earth  and  sea  t 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


ft 


"  '  Lord  James  of  Douglas,  mark  my  rede  ! 

That  heart  shall  pass  once  more 
In  fiery  fight  against  the  foe, 

As  it  was  wont  of  yore. 

"  'And  it  shall  pass  beneath  the  Cross, 

And  save  King  Robert's  vow  ; 
But  other  hands  shall  bear  it  back, 

Not,  James  of  Douglas,  thou  ! ' 

"Now,  by  thy  knightly  faith,  I  pray, 

Sir  Simon  of  the  Lee,  —  , 

For  truer  friend  had  never  man 

Than  thou  hast  been  to  me,  — 

"  If  ne'er  upon  the  Holy  Land 

'T  is  mine  in  life  to  tread. 
Bear  thou  to  Scotland's  kindly  earth 

The  relics  of  her  dead." 

The  tear  was  in  Sir  Simon's  eye 
As  he  wrung  the  warrior's  hand,  — 

"  Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 
I  '11  hold  by  thy  command. 

"  But  if  in  battle-front,  Lord  James, 

'T  is  ours  once  more  to  ride, 
Nor  force  of  man,  nor  craft  of  fiend, 

Shall  cleave  me  from  thy  side  !  " 

And  aye  we  sailed  and  aye  we  sailed 

Across  the  weary  sea, 
Until  one  morn  the  coast  of  Spain 

Rose  grimly  on  our  lee. 

And  as  we  rounded  to  the  port, 

Beneath  the  watch-tower's  wall, 
We  heard  the  clash  of  the  atabals, 

And  the  trumpet's  wavering  call. 

"  Why  sounds  yon  Eastern  music  here 

So  wantonly  and  long, 
And  whose  the  crowd  of  armed  men 

That  round  yon  standard  throng  ? " 

"The  Moors  have  come  from  Africa 

To  spoil  and  waste  and  slay, 
And  King  Alonzo  of  Castile 

Must  fight  with  them  to-day." 

"  Now  shame  it  were,"  cried  good  Lord  James, 

"  Shall  never  be  said  of  me 
That  I  and  mine  have  turned  aside 

From  the  Cross  in  jeopardie  ! 

"  Have  down,  have  down,  my  merry  men  all,  — 

Have  down  unto  the  plain  ; 
We  '11  let  the  Scottish  lion  loose 

Within  the  fields  of  Spain  !  " 


"  Now  welcome  to  me,  noble  lord, 
Thou  and  thy  stalwart  power  ; 

Dear  is  the  sight  of  a  Christian  knight, 
Who  comes  in  such  an  hour  ! 

"Is  it  for  bond  or  faith  you  come, 

Or  yet  for  golden  fee  ? 
Or  bring  ye  France's  lilies  here, 

Or  the  flower  of  Burgundie  ? " 

"God  greet  thee  well,  thou  valiant  king, 

Thee  and  thy  belted  peers,  — ■ 

Sir  James  of  Douglas  am  1  called, 

And  these  are  Scottish  spears. 

"We  do  not  fight  for  bond  or  plight, 

Nor  yet  for  golden  fee  ; 
But  for  the  sake  of  our  blessed  Lord, 

Who  died  upon  the  tree. 

"  We  bring  our  great  King  Robert's  heart 

Across  the  weltering  wave, 
To  lay  it  in  the  holy  soil 

Hard  by  the  Saviour's  grave. 

"  True  pilgrims  we,  by  land  or  sea, 

Where  danger  bars  the  way  ; 
And  therefore  are  we  here,  Lord  King, 

To  ride  with  thee  this  day  !  " 

The  King  has  bent  his  stately  head, 
And  the  tears  were  in  his  eyne,  — 

"  God's  blessing  on  thee,  noble  knight, 
For  this  brave  thought  of  thine  ! 

"  I  know  thy  name  full  well,  Lord  James  ; 

And  honored  may  I  be, 
That  those  who  fought  beside  the  Bruce 

Should  fight  this  day  for  me  ! 

"Take  thou  the  leading  of  the  van, 
And  charge  the  Moors  amain  ; 

There  is'not  such  a  lance  as  thine 
In  all  the  host  of  Spain  !  " 

The  Douglas  turned  towards  us  then, 
O,  but  his  glance  was  high  !  — 

"  There  is  not  one  of  all  my  men 
But  is  as  bold  as  I. 

"There  is  not  one  of  all  my  knights 

But  bears  as  true  a  spear,  — 
Then  onward,  Scottish  gentlemen, 

And  think  King  Robert 's  here  !  " 

The  trumpets  blew,  the  cross-bolts  flew, 

The  arrows  flashed  like  flame, 
As  spur  in  side,  and  spear  in  rest, 

Against  the  foe  we  came. 


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POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND  WAR. 


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■a 


And  many  a  bearded  Saracen 

Went  down,  both  horse  and  man  ; 

For  through  their  ranks  we  rode  like  corn, 
So  furiously  we  ran  ! 

But  in  behind  our  path  they  closed, 

Though  fain  to  let  us  through, 
For  they  were  forty  thousand  men, 

And  we  were  wondrous  few. 

We  might  not  see  a  lance's  length, 

So  dense  was  their  array, 
But  the  long  fell  sweep  of  the  Scottish  blade 

Still  held  them  hard  at  bay. 

"Make  in  !  make  in  !  "  Eord  Douglas  cried,  — 

' '  Make  in,  my  brethren  dear  ! 
Sir  William  of  St.  Clair  is  down  ; 

We  may  not  leave  him  here  !  " 

But  thicker,  thicker  grew  the  swarm, 

And  sharper  shot  the  rain, 
And  the  horses  reared  amid  the  press, 

But  they  would  not  charge  again. 

"Now  Jesu  help  thee,"  said  Lord  James, 

"Thou  kind  and  true  St.  Clair  ! 
An'  if  I  may  not  bring  thee  off, 

I  '11  die  beside  thee  there  !  " 

Then  in  his  stirrups  up  he  stood, 

So  lion-like  and  bold, 
And  held  the  precious  heart  aloft 

All  in  its  case  of  gold. 

He  flung  it  from  him,  far  ahead, 

And  never  spake  he  more, 
But  —  "  Pass  thou  first,  thou  dauntless  heart, 

As  thou  wert  wont  of  yore  !  " 

The  roar  of  fight  rose  fiercer  yet, 

And  heavier  still  the  stour, 
Till  the  spears  of  Spain  came  shivering  in, 

And  swept  away  the  Moor. 

"  Now  praised  be  God,  the  day  is  won  ! 

They  fly  o'er  flood  and  fell,  — 
Why  dost  thou  draw  the  rein  so  hard, 

Good  knight,  that  fought  so  well  ?" 

"0,  ride  ye  on.  Lord  King  !"  he  said, 
"  And  leave  tlie  dead  to  me, 

For  1  musl  keep  tin-  dreariest  watch 
That  ever  I  shall  dr©  I 

"There  lies,  above  his  master's  heart, 

Tlie  I louglas,  Btark  and  grim  ; 
Ami  woe  is  me  I  should  be  here, 

Not  side  by  .side  with  hiin  ! 


"The  world  grows  cold,  my  arm  is  old, 

And  thin  my  lyart  hair, 
And  all  that  I  loved  best  on  earth 

Is  stretched  before  me  there. 

"0  Both  well  banks  !  that  bloom  so  bright 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
The  heaviest  cloud  that  ever  blew 

Is  bound  for  you  this  day. 

"  And  Scotland  !  thou  mayst  veil  thy  head 

In  sorrow  and  in  pain  : 
The  sorest  stroke  upon  thy  brow 

Hath  fallen  this  day  in  Spain  ! 

"We  '11  bear  them  back  unto  our  ship, 

We  '11  bear  them  o'er  the  sea, 
And  lay  them  in  the  hallowed  earth 

Within  our  own  countrie. 

"And  be  thou  strong  of  heart,  Lord  King, 

For  this  I  tell  thee  sure, 
The  sod  that  drank  the  Douglas'  blood 

Shall  never  bear  the  Moor  !  " 

The  King  he  lighted  from  his  horse, 

He  flung  his  brand  away, 
And  took  the  Douglas  by  the  hand, 

So  stately  as  he  lay. 

"God  give  thee  rest,  thou  valiant  soul  ! 

That  fought  so  well  for  Spain  ; 
I  'd  rather  half  my  land  were  gone, 

So  thou  wert  here  again  !  " 

We  bore  tlie  good  Lord  James  away, 
And  the  priceless  heart  we  bore, 

And  heavily  we  steered  our  ship 
Towards  the  Scottish  shore. 

No  welcome  greeted  our  return, 

Nor  clang  of  martial  tread, 
But  all  were  dumb  and  hushed  as  death 

Before  the  mighty  dead. 

We  laid  our  chief  in  Douglas  Kirk, 

The  heart  in  fair  Melrose  ; 
And  woful  men  were  we  that  day,  — 

God  grant  their  soids  repose  ! 

William  Hdmo.ndstoune  avtoln. 


GATHERING 


SONG     OF 
BLACK. 


DONALD     Till: 


Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 
Pibroch  of  Donuil, 

Wake  thy  wild  Voice  anew, 
Summon  Clan  Conuil. 


&~ 


-W 


a 


394 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   AVAR. 


-ft 


Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky  ; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlocky. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  hlade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter  ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar  ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  ; 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended  ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded  ; 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come  ; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 

Pibroch  of  Uonuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


SONG   OF   CLAN-ALPINE. 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 

Honored  and  blessed  be  the  evergreen  Pine  ! 
Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line  ! 

Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 

Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow, 

While  every  highland  glen 

Sends  our  shout  back  again, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !  " 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain, 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade  ; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped  every  leaf  on 
the  mountain, 

The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine  exult  in  her  shade. 


Moored  in  the  rifted  rock, 

Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow  ; 

Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 

Echo  his  praise  again, 
"Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !  " 

Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen  Fruin, 
And  Bannachar's  groans  to  our  slogan  replied  ; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking  in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch-Lomond  lie  dead  on  her 
side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think  of  Clan-Alpine  with  fear  and  with  woe  ; 
Lennox  and  Leven-glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  again, 
"Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !  " 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  Highlands  ! 

Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  evergreen  Pine  ! 

0  that  the  rosebud  that  graces  yon  islands 

Were  wreathed  in  a  gar  land  around  him  to  twine ! 

0  that  some  seedling  gem, 

Worthy  such  noble  stem, 

Honored  and  blessed  in  their  shadow  might 

grow  ! 

Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 

Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 

"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !  " 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE    FIERY    CROSS    OF    CLAN-ALPINE. 

'T  was  all  prepared  ;  —  and  from  the  rock 
A  goat,  the  patriarch  of  the  flock, 
Before  the  kindling  pile  was  laid, 
And  pierced  by  Roderick's  ready  blade. 
Patient  the  sickening  victim  eved 
The  life-blood  ebb  in  crimson  tide, 
Down  his  clogged  beard  and  shaggy  limb, 
Till  darkness  glazed  his  eyeballs  dim. 
The  grisly  priest,  with  murmuring  prayer, 
A  slender  crosslet  framed  with  care, 
A  cubit's  length  in  measure  due  ; 
The  shaft  and  limbs  were  rods  of  yew, 
Whose  parents  in  Inch-Cailliach  wave 
Their  shadows  o'er  Clan-Alpine's  grave, 
And,  answering  Lomond's  breezes  deep, 
Soothe  many  a  chieftain's  endless  sleep. 
The  Cross,  thus  formed,  he  held  on  high, 
With  wasted  hand  and  haggard  eye, 
And  strange  and  mingled  feelings  woke, 
While  his  anathema  he  spoke  :  — 


"  AVoe  to  the  clansman  who  shall  view 
This  symbol  of  sepulchral  yew, 
Forgetful  that  its  branches  grew 


iH- 


■ff- 


a- 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


■a 


395 


Where  weep  the  heavens  their  holiest  dew 

On  Alpine's  dwelling  low  ! 
Deserter  of  his  Chieftain's  trust, 
He  ne'er  shall  mingle  with  their  dust, 
But,  from  his  sires  and  kindred  thrust, 
Each  clansman's  execration  just 

Shall  doom  him  wrath  and  woe." 
He  paused  ;  —  the  word  the  vassals  took, 
With  foz'ward  step  and  fiery  look, 
On  high  their  naked  brands  they  shook, 
Their  clattering  targets  wildly  strook  ; 

And  first  in  murmur  low, 
Then,  like  the  billow  in  his  course, 
That  far  to  seaward  finds  his  source, 
And  flings  to  shore  his  mustered  force, 
Burst,  with  loud  roar,  their  answer  hoarse, 

' '  Woe  to  the  traitor,  woe  !  " 
Ben-an's  gray  scalp  the  accents  knew, 
The  joyous  wolf  from  covert  drew, 
The  exulting  eagle  screamed  afar,  — 
They  knew  the  voice  of  Alpine's  war. 

The  shout  was  hushed  on  lake  and  fell, 
The  monk  resumed  his  muttered  spell  : 
Dismal  and  low  its  accents  came, 
The  while  he  scathed  the  Cross  with  flame  ; 
And  the  few  words  that  reached  the  air, 
Although  the  holiest  name  was  there, 
Had  more  of  blasphemy  than  prayer. 
But  when  he  shook  above  the  crowd 
Its  kindled  points,  he  spoke  aloud  :  — 
"Woe  to  the  wretch  who  fails  to  rear 
At  this  dread  sign  the  ready  spear  ! 
For,  as  the  flames  this  symbol  sear, 
His  home,  the  refuge  of  his  fear, 

A  kindred  fate  shall  know  ; 
Far  o'er  its  roof  the  volumed  flame 
Clan-Alpine's  vengeance  shall  proclaim, 
While  maids  and  matrons  on  his  name 
Shall  call  down  wretchedness  and  shame, 

And  infamy  and  woe." 
Then  rose  the  cry  of  females,  shrill 
As  goshawk's  whistle  on  the  hill, 
Denouncing  misery  and  ill, 
Min-lcd  with  childhood's  babbling  trill 

Of  curses  stammered  slow  ; 
Answering,  with  imprecation  dread, 
"Sunk  be  his  home  in  embers  red  ! 
And  cursi'd  he  the  meanest  shed 
That  e'er  shall  hide  the  houseless  head 

We  doom  to  want  ami  woe  !  " 

A  sharp  and  shrieking  echo  gave, 
Coir-Uriskin,  thy  goblin  caw  ' 
Ami  the  gray  pass  where  birches  wave, 
On  Beala-nam-bo. 

Then  deeper  paused  the  priest  anew, 

And  hard  his  laboring  breath  he  drew. 


While,  with  set  teeth  and  clenched  band, 
And  eyes  that  glowed  like  fiery  brand, 
He  meditated  curse  more  dread, 
And  deadlier,  on  the  clansman's  head, 
Who,  summoned  to  his  Chieftain's  aid, 
The  signal  saw  and  disobeyed. 
The  crosslet's  points  of  sparkling  wood 
He  quenched  among  the  bubbling  blood, 
And,  as  again  the  sign  he  reared, 
Hollow  and  hoarse  his  voice  was  heard  : 
"When  flits  this  Cross  from  man  to  man, 
Vich-Alpine's  summons  to  his  clan, 
Burst  be.  the  ear  that  fails  to  heed  ! 
Palsied  the  foot  that  shuns  to  speed  ! 
May  ravens  tear  the  careless  eyes, 
Wolves  make  the  coward  heart  their  prize  ! 
As  sinks  that  blood-stream  in  the  earth, 
So  may  his  heart's-blood  drench  his  hearth  ! 
As  dies  in  hissing  gore  the  spark, 
Quench  thou  his  light,  Destruction  dark ! 
And  be  the  grace  to  him  denied, 
Bought  by  this  sign  to  all  beside  !  " 
Pie  ceased  ;  no  echo  gave  again 
The  murmur  of  the  deep  Amen. 

Then  Roderick,  with  impatient  look, 
From  Brian's  hand  the  symbol  took  : 
"Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  "  he  said,  and  gave 
The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave. 
"The  muster-place  be  Lanrick  mead, — 
Instant  the  time,  —  speed,  Malise,  speed  ! " 
Like  heath-bird,  when  the  hawks  pursue, 
A  barge  across  Loch-Katrine  flew  ; 
High  stood  the  henchman  on  the  prow, 
So  rapidly  the  bargemen  row, 
The  bubbles,  where  they  launched  the  boat, 
Were  all  unbroken  and  afloat, 
Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  still, 
AVhen  it  had  neared  the  mainland  hill  ; 
And  from  the  silver  beach's  side 
Still  was  the  prow  three  fathom  wide, 
When  lightly  bounded  to  tin'  land 
The  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 

Fast  as  the  fatal  symbol  flies, 
In  arms  the  huts  and  hamlets  rise  ; 
From  winding  glen,  from  upland  brown, 
They  poured  each  hardy  tenant  down. 
Nor  slacked  the  messenger  his  pace  ; 
lie  showed  the  sign,  he  named  the  place, 
And,  pressing  forward  like  the  wind, 
Left  clamor  and  surprise  behind. 
The  fisherman  forsook  the  strand, 
The  Bwarthy  smith  took  dirk  and  brand  ; 
With  changed  cheer,  the  mower  blithe 
Left  in  the  half-cut  swath  his  scythe  ; 
Tlic  herds  without  a  keeper  strayed, 
The  plough  w;is  in  mid-furrow  stayed, 


-ff 


cfr 


396 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


The  falc'ner  tossed  his  hawk  away, 
The  hunter  left  the  stag  at  bay  ; 
Prompt  at  the  signal  of  alarms, 
Each  son  of  Alpine  rushed  to  arms  ; 
So  swept  the  tumult  and  affray 
Along  the  margin  of  Achray. 
Alas,  thou  lovely  lake  !  that  e'er 
Thy  banks  should  echo  sounds  of  fear  ! 
The  rocks,  the  bosky  thickets,  sleep 
So  stilly  on  thy  bosom  deep, 
The  lark's  blithe  carol  from  the  cloud 
Seems  for  the  scene  too  gayly  loud. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


MARCH,    MARCH,    ETTRICK  AND 
TEVIOTDALE. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale  ! 

Why  the  deil  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale  ! 
All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  over  the  Border  ! 

Many  a  banner  spread 

Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready,  then, 

Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory  ! 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grazing ; 
Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe  ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing ; 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 
Trumpets  are  sounding  ; 
War-steeds  are  bounding  ; 
Stand  to  yourarms,  then,  and  march  ingood  order, 
England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


GO   WHERE   GLORY   WAITS   THEE. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 
But,  while  fame  elates  thee, 

0,  still  remember  me  ! 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

0,  then  remember  me  ! 
Other  arms  may  press  thee, 
Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee, 

Sweeter  far  may  be  ; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest, 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

O,  then  remember  me  ! 


When  at  eve  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

0,  then  remember  me  ! 
Think,  when  home  returning, 
Bright  we  've  seen  it  burning, 

0,  thus  remember  me  ! 
Oft  as  summer  closes, 
On  its  lingering  roses, 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them, 

0,  then  remember  me  ! 

When,  around  thee  dying, 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

0,  then  remember  me  ! 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

0,  still  remember  me  ! 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee  ; 

Then  let  memory  bring  thee 

Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee,  — 

0,  then  remember  me  ! 

Thomas  Moore  ("  Irish  Mslodies"). 


THE      BATTLE  -SONG     OF     GUSTAVUS 
ADOLPHUS. 

[Translation.] 

Fear  not,  0  little  flock  !  the  foe 
Who  madly  seeks  your  overthrow, 

Dread  not  his  rage  and  power  ; 
What  though  your  courage  sometimes  faints  ? 
His  seeming  triumph  o'er  God's  saints 

Lasts  but  a  little  hour. 

Be  of  good  cheer  ;  your  cause  belongs 
To  Him  who  can  avenge  your  wrongs, 

Leave  it  to  him,  our  Lord. 
Though  hidden  now  from  all  our  eyes, 
He  sees  the  Gideon  who  shall  rise 

To  save  us,  and  his  word. 

As  true  as  God's  own  word  is  true, 
Not  earth  or  hell  with  all  their  crew 

Against  us  shall  prevail. 
A  jest  and  by-word  are  they  grown  ; 
God  is  with  us,  we  are  his  own, 

Our  victory  cannot  fail. 

Amen,  Lord  Jesus  ;  grant  our  prayer  ! 
Great  Captain,  now  thine  arm  make  bare  ; 
Fight  for  us  once  again  ! 


eg. 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


397 


So  shall  the  saints  and  martyrs  raise 
A  mighty  chorus  to  thy  praise, 
World  without  end  !     Amen. 

Michael  ALTENBURG  (German). 


HOW      THEY      BROUGHT      THE     GOOD 
NEWS   FROM   GHENT   TO   AIX. 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he  ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three  ; 
"  Good  speed  !  "  cried  the  watch  as  the  gate-bolts 
undrew, 


By  Hasselt  Dirck  groaned  ;  and  cried  Joris, 
"Stay  spur  ! 

Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in 
her  ; 

We  '11  remember  at  Aix,"  —  for  one  heard  the 
quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  and  stag- 
gering knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  hea-ve  of  the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and 
sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 


Speed  ! "    echoed   the    wall    to   us    galloping    Past   Looz  and  Past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the 


through. 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other  ;  we  kept  the  great 

pace,  — 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing 

our  place  ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the  pique 

right, 
Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the 

bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'T  was  a  moonset  at  starting  ;  but  while  we  drew 

near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned 

clear  ; 
At  Boom  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 
At  Dtiffeld  '1  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the 

half-chime,  — 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with  "Yet  there  is  time  ! " 

At  Aerschot  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every 

one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past  ; 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  .spray  ; 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear 

beul  bark 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his 

track  ; 


sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh  ; 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright  stubble 

like  chaff ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 
And  "Gallop,"   gasped  Joris,    "for  Aix  is   in 

sight  ! " 

"How  they'll  greet  us  !"  —  and  all  in  a  mo- 
ment his  roan 

Piolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a 
stone  ; 

And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole 
weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her 
fate, 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the 
brim, 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let 
fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and 
all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet  name,  my  horse  with- 
out peer,  — 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sung,  any  noise, 
bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and 
stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 
As  I  sate  with  his  head  'twixt  my  kuees  on  the 

ground  ; 
And  no  voice,  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of 

mine, 


And  one  eye's   black   mtelhgcnce.-ever  that  As  j  d  down  Ms  j^  ^  ^  measaI6  of 

6lance  ,  .  wine, 

O'er    its    white   edge   at  me,    his   own    master,  ^^  ^  lnn.gesses  vot(,d   by  common  con. 

'  .sent) 

And  tie.  thick   heavy  spume-flake  .   which  .ye  w&g  ^  ^  ^  ^  due  ^  ^^  gQod 

m«\mm»  .  news  from  Ghent. 

His  fierce  h]  '    upward  m  galloping  on.  Robert  browning. 


t± 


# 


Lfr 


398 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND  WAR. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 


You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  stormiug-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

II. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

in. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  hardly  could  suspect, 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through,) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

IV. 
"  Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  marshal  's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !"  The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

V. 
The  chiefs  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  : 
"  You  're  wounded  !  "   "  Nay, "  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
"  I  'm  killed,  sire  !  "     And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  Browning. 


HOIIENLINDEN. 

Ox  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'T  is  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  lolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 

Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE   NOBLEMAN   AND   THE    PEN- 
SIONER. 

"  Old  man,  God  bless  you  !  does  your  pipe  taste 
sweetly  ? 

A  beauty,  by  my  soul ! 
A  red  clay  flower- pot,  rimmed  with  gold  so  neatly ! 

What  ask  you  for  the  bowl  ? " 

"  0  sir,  that  bowl  for  worlds  I  would  not  part  with ; 

A  brave  man  gave  it  me, 
Who  won  it — nowwhat  think  you  ?  —  of  a  bashaw 

At  Belgrade's  victory. 

' '  There,  sir,    ah  !    there   was   booty  worth   the 
showing,  — 

Long  life  to  Prince  Eugene  ! 
Like  after-grass  you  might  have  seen  us  mowing 

The  Turkish  ranks  down  clean." 

"  Another  time  I  '11  hear  your  story  ;  — 

Come,  old  man,  be  no  fool ; 
Take  these  two  ducats,  —  gold  for  glory,  — 

And  let  me  have  the  bowl  ! " 


R3— •- 


•t? 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


399 


•a 


"  I  'm  a  poor  churl,  as  you  may  say,  sir  ; 

My  pension  's  all  I  'm  worth  : 
Yet  I  'd  not  give  that  bowl  away,  sir, 

For  all  the. gold  on  earth. 

"Just  hear  now  !  Once,  as  we  hussars,  all  merry, 

Hard  on  the  foe's  rear  pressed, 
A  blundering  rascal  of  a  janizary 

Shot  through  our  captain's  breast. 

"  At  once  across  my  horse  I  hove  him,  — 
The  same  would  he  have  done,  — 

And  from  the  smoke  and  tumult  drove  him 
Safe  to  a  nobleman. 

"I  nursed  him,  and,  before  his  end,  bequeathing 

His  money  and  this  bowl 
To   me,  he   pressed   my  hand,  just  ceased   his 
breathing, 

And  so  he  died,  brave  soul ! 

"The  money  thou  must  give  mine  host, — so 
thought  I,  — 

Three  plunderings  suffered  he  : 
And,  in  remembrance  of  my  old  friend,  brought  I 

The  pipe  away  with  me. 

"  Henceforth  in  all  campaigns  with  me  I  bore  it, 

In  flight  or  in  pursuit ; 
It  was  a  holy  thing,  sir,  and  I  wore  it 

Safe-sheltered  in  my  boot. 

"This  very  limb,  I  lost  it  by  a  shot,  sir, 

Under  the  walls  of  Prague  : 
First  at  my  precious  pipe,  be  sure,  I  caught,  sir, 

And  then  picked  up  my  leg." 

"  You  move  me  even  to  tears,  old  sire : 
What  was  the  brave  man's  name  ? 

Tell  me,  that  I,  too,  may  admire, 
And  venerate  his  fame." 

"They  called  him  only  the  brave  Walter  ; 

His  farm  lay  mar  the  Rhine."  — 
"God  bless  your  old  eyes  !  't  was  my  father, 

And  that  same  farm  is  mine. 

"Come,  friend,  you've  seen  some  stormy  weather, 

With  me  is  now  your  bed  ; 
We  '11  drink  of  Walter's  grapes  together, 

And  eat  of  Walter's  bread." 

"  Now,  —  done  !  I  march  in,  then,  to-morrow  ; 

You  're  his  true  heir,  1  see  ; 
And  when  I  die,  your  thanks,  kind  master, 

The  Turkish  pipe  shall  i.e." 

PFBPFBL.     Translation  of 
Charlus  T.  Uuooks. 


THE   SWORD   SONG. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF   KORNER. 

fCharles  Theodore  Korner  was  a  young  German  soldier, 
scholar,  poet,  and  patriot.  He  was  born  at  Dresden  in  the 
autumn  of  1791,  and  fell  in  battle  for  his  country  at  the  early 
age  of  twenty-two.  The  "  Sword  Song,"  so  called,  was  written  in 
his  pocket-book  only  two  hours  before  he  fell,  during  a  halt  in  a 
wood  previous  to  the  engagement,  and  was  read  by  him  to  a  com 
rade  just  as  the  signal  was  given  for  battle.  This  bold  song  rep- 
resents the  soldier  chiding  his  sword,  which,  under  the  imag^  of  his 
iron  bride,  is  impatient  to  come  forth  from  her  chamber,  the  scab- 
bard, and  be  wedded  to  him  on  the  field  of  battle,  where  each 
soldier  shall  press  the  blade  to  his  lips. 

Kurner  fell  in  an  engagement  with  superior  numbers  near  a 
thicket  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rosenburg.  He  had  advanced  in 
pursuit  of  the  flying  foe  too  far  beyond  his  comrades.  They  buried 
him  under  an  old  oak  on  the  site  of  the  battle,  and  carved  his 
name  on  the  trunk.] 

Sword,  on  my  left  side  gleaming, 
What  means  thy  bright  eye's  beaming? 
It  makes  my  spirit  dance 
To  see  thy  friendly  glance. 
Hurrah  ! 

' '  A  valiant  rider  bears  me  ; 
A  free-born  German  wears  me  : 
That  makes  my  eye  so  bright  ; 
That  is  the  sword's  delight." 
Hurrah  ! 

Yes,  good  sword,  I  am  free, 
And  love  thee  heartily, 
And  clasp  thee  to  my  side, 
E'en  as  a  plighted  bride. 
Hurrah  ! 

"  And  I  to  thee,  by  Heaven, 
My  light  steel  life  have  given  ; 
When  shall  the  knot  be  tied  ? 
When  wilt  thou  take  thy  bride  ?  " 
Hurrah  ! 

The  trumpet's  solemn  warning 
Shall  hail  the  bridal  morning. 
When  cannon-thunders  wake 
Then  my  true-love  I  take. 
Hurrah ! 

"  0  blessed,  blessed  meeting  ! 
My  heart  is  wildly  beating  : 
Come,  bridegroom,  come  for  me  ; 
My  garland  waiteth  thee." 
Hurrah  ! 

Why  in  the.  scabbard  rattle, 
So  wild,  so  fierce  for  battle  ? 
What  means  this  restless  glow? 
My  sword,  why  clatter  so  ? 
Hurrah  ! 

"  Well  may  thy  prisoner  rattle  ; 
My  spirit  yearns  for  battle. 


ta- 


£r 


400 


TOEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


ft 


Rider,  't  is  war's  wild  glow 
That  makes  me  tremble  so." 
Hurrah  ! 

Stay  in  thy  chamber  near, 
My  love  ;  what  wilt  thou  here  ? 
Still  in  thy  chamber  bide  : 
Soon,  soon  I  take  my  bride. 
Hurrah  ! 

"  Let  me  not  longer  wait  : 
Love's  garden  blooms  in  state, 
With  roses  bloody-red, 
And  many  a  bright  death-bed." 
Hurrah  ! 

Now,  then,  come  forth,  my  bride  ! 
Come  forth,  thou  rider's  pride  ! 
Come  out,  my  good  sword,  come  ! 
Forth  to  thy  father's  home  ! 
Hurrah  ! 

"0,  in  the  field  to  prance 
The  glorious  wedding  dance  ! 
How,  in  the  sun's  bright  beams, 
Bride-like  the  clear  steel  gleams  ! " 
Hurrah  ! 

Then  forward,  valiant  fighters  ! 
And  forward,  German  riders  ! 
And  when  the  heart  grows  cold, 
Let  each  his  love  infold. 
Hurrah  ! 

Once  on  the  left  it  hung, 
And  stolen  glances  flung  ; 
Now  clearly  on  your  right 
Doth  God  each  fond  bride  plight. 
Hurrah  ! 

Then  let  your  hot  lips  feel 
That  virgin  cheek  of  steel  ; 
One  kiss,  —  and  woe  betide 
Him  who  forsakes  the  bride. 
Hurrah  ! 

Now  let  the  loved  one  sing  ; 
Now  let  the  clear  blade  ring, 
Till  the  bright  sparks  shall  fly, 
Heralds  of  victory  ! 
Hurrah  ! 

For,  hark  !  the  trumpet's  warning 
Proclaims  the  marriage  morning  ; 
It  dawns  in  festal  pride  ; 
Hurrah,  thou  Iron  Bride  ! 
Hurrah  ! 

Translation  of  CHARLES  T.  BROOKS. 


THE   TURKISH   CAMP. 

BEFORE   CORINTH. 

'T  is  midnight :  on  the  mountains  brown 

The  cold  r^und  moon  shines  deeply  down  ; 

Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 

Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 

Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 

So  wildly,  spiritually  bright ; 

"Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining, 

And  turned  to  earth  without  repining, 

Nor  wished  for  wings  to  flee  away, 

And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 

The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there, 

Calm,  clear,  and  aziire  as  the  air  : 

And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 

But  murmured  meekly  as  the  brook. 

The  winds  were  pillowed  on  the  waves  ; 

The  banners  drooped  along  their  staves, 

And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 

Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling  ; 

And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 

Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 

Save  where  the  steed  neighed  oft  and  shrill, 

And  echo  answered  from  the  hill, 

And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 

Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 

As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 

In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer  ; 

It  rose,  that  chanted  mournful  strain, 

Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain  : 

'T  was  musical,  but  sadly  sweet, 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 

And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone, 

To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown. 

It  seemed  to  those  within  the  wall 

A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fall  : 

It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 

With  something  ominous  and  drear, 

An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 

Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  still, 

Then  beat  with  quicker  pulse,  ashamed 

Of  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed  ; 

Such  as  a  sudden  passing-bell 

Wakes,  though  but  for  a  stranger's  knell. 

BYRON. 


WATERLOO. 


FROM        CHILDE   HAROLD. 


Theke  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
Thelampsshone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 


k- 


-e 


POEMS   OF   PEACE  AND   WAR. 


401 


ft 


Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell  ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 
knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No  ;  't  was  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfmed  ! 
No  sleep  till  morn  when  Youth  and  Pleasure 

meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  Hying  feet,  — 
But,  hark  !  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once 

more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat  ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm  !  arm  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening 

roar  ! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetieear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could 

quell  : 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting, 

fell. 

Ah  !  then,  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Andgathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  sucli  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking 

sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  :  who  would 

guess 
If  evermore  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could 

rise ! 

And  there  wasmonnting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  s]"-<-d, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  tin'  l-tnks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  tin-  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  tin-  morning  .'■tar; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering  with  white  lips,  —  "  The  foe  !  tiny 
come  I  they  come  !  " 

And  wild  ami  high  the  "Cameron's gathering" 

The  war-note  of  Loehiel,  which  Albyn's  bills 


Have  heard,  —  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon 

foes  : 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills 
Savage  and  shrill !     But  with  the  breath  which 

fills 
Their  mountain  pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clans- 
man's ears  ! 

And  Ardennes  waves   above  them  her  green 

leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Whichnow  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold 

and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 

Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 

The  midnight  brought  the  signal  sound  of  strife, 

The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms,  —  the  day 

Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 

The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when 

rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and 

pent, 
Rider   and   horse,  —  friend,    foe,  —  in   one   red 

burial  blent ! 

Their  praise  is  hymned  by  loftier  harps  than 

mine  ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  sonic  wrong, 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song ! 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  showered 
The   death-bolts  deadliest    the    thinned    files 

along, 
Even    where   the   thickest   of  war's   tempest 

lowered, 
They  reached  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young, 

gallant  Howard  ! 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for 

thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give  ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  tin-  fresh  green  tree, 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to 

live, 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
Witb  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  ami  the  Spring 
Conn-  forth  iter  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 


& 


a- 


402 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


"With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turned  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could 
not  bring. 

I  turned  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake  ; 
The  Archangel's  trump,  not  glory's,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for  ;  though  the  sound 

of  Fame 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honored  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

Theymourn,  but  smile  atlength  ;  and,  smiling, 

mourn  : 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall  ; 
The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn  ; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruined  wall 
Stands   when  its  wind-worn   battlements  are 

gone  ; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  inthrall  ; 
The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep  out 

the  sun  ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on ; 

Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 

In  every  fragment  multiplies,  and  makes 

A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was 

The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks  ; 

And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 

Living  in  shattered  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 

And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches, 

Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 

Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold. 

Byron. 


THE   CHARGE   AT   WATERLOO. 

Ox  came  the  whirlwind,  —  like  the  last 
But  fiercest  sweep  of  tempest-blast  ; 
On  came  the  whirlwind,  — steel-gleams  broke 
Like  lightning  through  the  rolling  smoke  ; 

The  war  was  waked  anew. 
Three  hundred  cannon-mouths  roared  loud, 
And  from  their  throats,  with  flash  and  cloud, 

Their  showers  of  iron  threw. 
Beneath  their  fire,  in  full  career, 
Rushed  on  the  ponderous  cuirassier, 
The  lancer  couched  his  ruthless  spear, 
And,  hurrying  as  to  havoc  near, 

The  cohorts'  eagles  flew. 
In  one  dark  torrent,  broad  and  strong, 
The  advancing  onset  rolled  along, 
Forth  harbingered  by  fierce  acclaim, 


That,  from  the  shroud  of  smoke  and  flame, 
Pealed  wildly  the  imperial  name. 
But  on  the  British  heart  were  lost 
The  terrors  of  the  charging  host ; 
For  not  an  eye  the  storm  that  viewed 
Changed  its  proud  glance  of  fortitude, 
Nor  was  one  forward  footstep  stayed, 
As  dropped  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Fast  as  their  ranks  the  thunders  tear, 
Fast  they  renewed  each  serried  square  ; 
And  on  the  wounded  and  the  slain 
Closed  their  diminished  files  again, 
Till  from  their  lines  scarce  spears'  lengths  three, 
Emerging  from  the  smoke  they  see 
Helmet  and  plume  and  panoply. 
"Then  waked  their  fire  at  once  ! 
Each  musketeer's  revolving  knell 
As  fast,  as  regularly  fell, 
As  when  they  practise  to  display 
Their  discipline  on  festal  day. 

Then  down  went  helm  and  lance, 
Down  were  the  eagle-banners  sent, 
Down  reeling  steeds  and  riders  went, 
Corselets  were  pierced  and  pennons  rent  ; 

And,  to  augment  the  fray, 
Wheeled  full  against  their  staggering  flanks, 
The  English  horsemen's  foaming  ranks 

Forced  their  resistless  way. 

Then  to  the  musket-knell  succeeds 

The  clash  of  swords,  the  neigh  of  steeds  ; 

As  plies  the  smith  his  clanging  trade, 

Against  the  cuirass  rang  the  blade  ; " 

And  while  amid  their  close  array 

The  well-served  cannon  rent  their  way, 

And  while  amid  their  scattered  band 

Raged  the  fierce  rider's  bloody  brand, 

Recoiled  in  common  rout  and  fear 

Lancer  and  guard  and  cuirassier, 

Horsemen  and  foot,  —  a  mingled  host,  — 

Their  leaders  fallen,  their  standards  lost. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE   MARCH  TO   MOSCOW. 

The  Emperor  Nap  he  would  set  out 
For  a  summer  excursion  to  Moscow  ; 

The  fields  were  green  and  the  sky  was  blue  ; 
Morbleu  !  Parbleu  ! 
What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 

Four  hundred  thousand  men  and  more, 

Heigh-ho,  for  Moscow  ! 
There  were  marshals  by  dozens  and  dukes  by  the 
score, 

Princes  a  few,  and  kings  one  or  two, 
While  the  fields  are  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu  !  Parbleu  ! 
What  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Moscow  ! 


& 


-ff 


POEMS   OF   PEACE  AND    WAR. 


403 


a 


There  was  Junot  and  Augereau, 

Heigh-ho,  for  Moscow  ! 
Dombrowsky  and  Poniatowsky, 
General  Rapp  and  Emperor  Nap, 

Notliing  would  do, 
While  the  fields  were  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

M  or  bleu  !  Parbleu  ! 
But  they  must  be  marched  to  Moscow.  - 

But  the  Russians  they  stoutly  turned  to, 

All  on  the  road  to  Moscow, 
Nap  had  to  right  his  way  all  through, 
They  could  fight,  but  they  could  not  parley-vous, 
But  the  fields  were  green,  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

Morbleu  !  Parbleu  ! 
And  so  he  got  to  Moscow. 

They  made  the  place  too  hot  for  him, 

For  they  set  fire  to  Moscow ; 
To  get  there  had  cost  him  much  ado, 
And  then  no  better  course  lie  knew, 
While  the  fields  were  green  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

Morbleu  !  Parbleu ! 
Than  to  march  back  again  from  Moscow. 

The  Russians  they  stuck  close  to  him, 
All  on  the  road  from  Moscow  ; 

There  was  Tormazow  and  Gomalow, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  ow  ; 

Rajefsky  and  Noverefsky, 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  cfsky  ; 

Schamscheff,  Souchosaneff,  and  Schepeleff, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  eff; 

Wasiltschecolf,  Kostomaroff,  and  TheoglokofT, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  off; 

Milaravoditcli,   and  Juladovitch,  and  Karatch- 
kowitch, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  itch; 

Oscharoffsky,  and  Rostoffsky,  Kasatichkoffsky, 
And  all  the  others  that  end  in  offsky ; 
And  Platoff  he  played  them  off, 
And  Markoff  he  marked  them  off, 
And  Tutchkoff  he  touched  them  off, 
And  Kutusoff  he  cut  them  off, 
And  Woronzoff  he  worried  them  off, 
And  Dochtoroff  he  doctored  them  off, 
And  Rodinoff  he  flogged  them  off; 
And  last  of  all  an  Admiral  came, 
A  terrible  man,  with  a  terrible  name, 
A  name  which  you  all  must  know  very  well, 
Nobody  can  speak,  and  nobody  can  spell. 

They  stink  dose  to  Nap  with  all  their  might, 
They  were  on  flic  left  ami  mi  the  right, 
Behind  and  before,  ami  by  day  and  by  night ; 
Nap  would  rather  parley-vous  than  light ; 
Hut  parley-vous  would  no  more  do, 
Morbleu  !  Parbleu  ! 
For  they  remembered  Moscow  ! 


And  then  came  on  the  frost  and  snow, 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow  ! 
The  Emperor  Nap  found,  as  he  went, 
That  he  was  not  quite  omnipotent ; 
And  worse  and  worse  the  weather  grew, 
The  fields  were  so  white  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu  !  Yentrebleu  ! 
What  a  terrible  journey  from  Moscow  1 

The  devil  take  the  hindmost, 

All  on  the  road  from  Moscow  ! 

Quoth  Nap,  who  thought  it  small  delight, 

To  fight  all  day  and  to  freeze  all  night  ; 

And  so,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do, 

When  the  fields  were  so  white  and  the  sky  so  blue, 

Morbleu  !  Parbleu  ! 

He  stole  away,  I  tell  you  true, 

All  by  himself  from  Moscow. 

Robert  Southey. 


RODERICK   IN   BATTLE. 

FROM    "  RODERICK,    THE   LAST   OF  THE    GOTHS." 

WiTn  that  he  fell  upon  the  old  man's  neck  ; 
Then  vaulted  in  the  saddle,  gave  the  reins, 
And  soon  rejoined  the  host.     On,  comrades,  on  ! 
Victory  and  Vengeance  !  he  exclaimed,  and  took 
The  lead  on  that  good  charger,  he  alone 
Horsed  for  the  onset.     They,  with  one  consent, 
Gave  all  their  voices  to  the  inspiring  cry, 
Victory  and  Vengeance  !  and  the  hills  and  rocks 
Caught  the  prophetic  shout  and  rolled  it  round. 
Count  Pedro's  people  heard  amid  the  heat 
Of  battle,  and  returned  the  glad  acclaim. 
The  astonished  Mussulmen,  on  all  sides  charged, 
Heard  that  tremendous  cry  ;  yet  manfully 
They  stood,  and  everywhere,  with  gallant  front, 
Opposed  in  fair  array  the  shock  of  war. 
I  lesperately  they  fought,  like  men  expert  in  arms, 
And  knowing  that  no  safety  could  be  found 
Save  from  their  own  right  hands.    No  former  day 
( >f  all  his  long  career  had  seen  their  chief 
Approved  so  well  ;  nor  had  Witiza's  sons 
Ever  before  this  hour  achieved  in  light 
Such  feats  of  resolute  valor.     Sisibert 
Beheld  Pelayo  in  the  field  afoot, 
Ami  twice  essayed  beneath  his  horse's  feet 
To  thrust  him  down.     Twice  did  the  prince  evade. 
The  shock,  and  twice  upon  his  shield  received 
The  fratricidal  sword.      Tempt  me  no  more, 
Son  of  Witiza,  cried  the  indignant  chief, 
l.est  I  forgel  what  mother  gave  thee  birth  ! 
Go  meet  thy  death  from  any  hand  but  mine  ! 
lie  said,  and  turned  aside.      Fitliest  from  me  ! 
Exclaimed  a  dreadful  voice,  as  through  the  throng 
Orelio  forced  his  way  :    fitliest  from  me 
Receive  the  rightful  death  too  Ion1'  withheld  ! 


# 


+4- 


404 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


"T  is  Roderick  strikes  the   blow  !     And  as  he 
spake, 

Upon  the  traitor's  shoulder  fierce  he  drove 
The  weapon,  well  bestowed.     He  in  the  seat 
Tottered  and  fell.     The  avenger  hastened  on 
In  search  of  Ebba  ;  and  in  the  heat  of  fight 
Rejoicing,  and  forgetful  of  all  else, 
Set  up  his  cry,  as  he  was  wont  in  youth,  — 
Roderick   the    Goth  !  —  his   war-cry  known   so 

well. 
Pelayo  eagerly  took  up  the  word, 
And  shouted  out  his  kinsman's  name  beloved,  — 
Roderick  the  Goth  !  Roderick  and  Victory  ! 
Roderick  and  Vengeance  !  Odoar  gave  it  forth  ; 
Urban  repeated  it,  and  through  his  ranks 
Count  Pedro  sent  the  cry.     Not  from  the  field 
Of  his  great  victory,  when  Witiza  fell, 
With  louder  acclamations  had  that  name 
Been  borne  abroad  upon  the  winds  of  heaven. 
The  unreflecting  throng,  who  yesterday, 
If  it  had  passed  their  lips,  would  with  a  curse 
Have  clogged  it,  echoed  it  as  if  it  came. 
From  some  celestial  voice  in  the  air,  revealed 
To  be  the  certain  pledge  of  all  their  hopes. 
Roderick  the  Goth  !     Roderick  and  Victory  ! 
Roderick    and    Vengeance  !      O'er   the    field   it 

spread, 
All  hearts  and  tongues  uniting  in  the  cry  ; 
Mountains  and  rocks  and  vales  re-echoed  round  ; 
And  he,  rejoicing  in  his  strength,  rode  on, 
Laying  on  the  Moors  with  that  good  sword,  and 

smote, 
And  overthrew,  and  scattered,  and  destroyed, 
And  trampled  down  ;  and  still  at  every  blow 
Exultingly  he  sent  the  war-cry  forth, 
Roderick  the  Goth  !  Roderick  and  Victory  ! 
Roderick  and  Vengeance  ! 

Thus  lie  made  his  way, 
Smiting  and   slaying,   through   the   astonished 

ranks, 
Till  he  beheld,  where,  on  a  fiery  barb, 
Ebba,  performing  well  a  soldier's  part, 
Dealt  to  the  right  and  left  his  deadly  blows. 
With  mutual  rage  they  met.     The  renegade 
Displays  a  cimeter,  the  splendid  gift 
Of  Walid  from  Damascus  sent ;  its  hilt 
Embossed  with  gems,  its  blade  of  perfect  steel, 
Which,  like  a  mirror  sparkling  to  the  sun 
With  dazzling  splendor,  flashed.    The  Goth  ob- 
jects 
His  shield,  and  on  its  rim  received  the  edge 
Driven  from  its  aim  aside,  and  of  its  force 
Diminished.     Many  a  frustrate  stroke  was  dealt 
On  either  part,  and  many  a  foin  and  thrust 
Aimed  and  rebated  ;  many  a  deadly  blow, 
Straight  or  reverse,  delivered  and  repelled. 
Roderick  at  length  with  better  speed  hath  reached 
The  apostate's  turban,  and  through  all  its  folds 


The  true  Cantabrian  weapon  making  way 
Attained  his  forehead.     "  Wretch !  "  the  avenger 

cried, 
"It  comes  from  Roderick's  hand  !   Roderick  the 

Goth  ! 
Who  spared,   who   trusted   thee,   and  was  be- 
trayed ! 
Go  tell  thy  father  now  how  thou  hast  sped 
With  all  thy  treasons  !  "    Saying  thus,  he  seized 
The  miserable,  who,  blinded  now  with  blood, 
Reeled  in  the  saddle  ;  and  with  sidelong  step 
Backing  Orelio,  drew  him  to  the  ground. 
He  shrieking,  as  beneath  the  horse's  feet 
He  fell,  forgot  his  late-learnt  creed,  and  called 
On  Mary's  name.    The  dreadful  Goth  passed  on, 
Still  plunging  through  the  thickest  war,  and  still 
Scattering,  where'er   he  turned,   the   affrighted 
ranks.  Robert  southey. 


THE   LORD   OF   BUTRAGO. 

"  Your   horse   is   faint,    my   King,    my  lord  ! 

your  gallant  horse  is  sick,  — ■ 
His  limbs  are  torn,  his  breast  is  gored,  on  his 

eye  the  film  is  thick  ; 
Mount,  mount  on  mine,  0,  mount  apace,  I  pTay 

thee,  mount  and  fly  ! 
Or  in   my  arms   I  '11  lift   your   Grace,  —  their 

trampling  hoofs  are  nigh  ! 

"My  King,  my  King!   you're   wounded  sore, 

—  the  blood  runs  from  }-our  feet ; 
But  only  lay  a  hand  before,  and  I  '11  lift  you  to 

your  seat ; 
Mount,  Juan,  for  they    gather  fast !  —  I   hear 

their  coming  cry,  — ■ 
Mount,  mount,  and  ride  for  jeopardy,  —  I  '11  save 

you  though  I  die  ! 

"Stand,  noble  steed!  this  hour  of  need, — be 

gentle  as  a  lamb  ; 
I  '11  kiss  the  foam  from  off  thy  mouth,  —  thy 

master  dear  I  am,  — 
Mount,  Juan,  mount ;  whate'er  betide,  away  the 

bridle  fling, 
And  plunge  the  rowels  in  his  side.  —  My  horse 

shall  save  my  King  ! 

"  Nay,  never  speak  ;  my  sires,  Lord  King,  re- 
ceived their  land  from  yours, 

And  joyfully  their  blood  shall  spring,  so  be  it 
thine  secures  ; 

If  I  should  fly,  and  thou,  my  King,  be  found 
among  the  dead, 

How  could  I  stand  'mong  gentlemen,  such  scorn 
on  my  gray  head  ? 


[tu- 


rn 

"Hzr 


POEMS    OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


—a 

405      .. 


"Castile's   proud  dames  shall   never  point  the 

finger  of  disdain, 
And  say  there  's  one  that  ran  away  when  our 

good  lords  were  slain  ! 
I  leave   Diego   in   your   care, — you'll   fill   his 

father's  place  ; 
Strike,  strike  the  spur,  and  never  spare,  —  God's 

blessing  on  your  Grace  !  " 

So  spake  the  brave  Montanez,  Butrago's  lord  was 
he  ; 

And  turned  him  to  the  coming  host  in  steadfast- 
ness and  glee  ; 

He  flung  himself  among  them,  as  they  came 
down  the  hill,  — 

He  died,  God  wot !  but  not  before  his  sword  had 
drunk  its  fill.  John  Gibson  lockhart. 


HUDIBRAS'   SWORD   AND   DAGGER. 

His  puissant  sword  unto  his  side 
Near  his  undaunted  heart  was  tied, 
With  basket  hilt  that  would  hold  broth, 
And  serve  for  fight  and  dinner  both. 
In  it  he  melted  lead  for  bullets 
To  shoot  at  foes,  and  sometimes  pullets, 
To  whom  he  bore  so  fell  a  grutch 
He  ne'er  gave  quarter  to  any  such. 
The  trenchant  blade,  Toledo  trusty, 
For  want  of  fighting  was  grown  rusty, 
And  ate  into  itself,  for  lack 
Of  somebody  to  hew  and  hack. 
The  peaceful  scabbard,  where  it  dwelt, 
The  rancor  of  its  edge  had  felt  ; 
For  of  the  lower  end  two  handful 
It  had  devoured,  it  was  so  manful  ; 
And  so  much  scorned  to  lurk  in  case, 
As  if  it  durst  not  show  its  face. 

Tins  sword  a  dagger  had,  his  page, 

That  was  but  little  for  his  age, 

And  therefore  waited  on  him  so 

As  dwarfs  unto  knight-errants  do. 

It  was  a  serviceable  dudgeon, 

Either  for  fighting  or  for  drudging. 

When  it  had  stabbed  or  broke  a  head, 

It  would  scrape  trenchers  or  chip  bread, 

Toast  cheese  or  bacon,  though  it  were 

To  bait  a  mouse-trap  't  would  not  care  ; 

'T  would  make  clean  shoes,  and  in  the  earth 

Set  leeks  and  onions,  and  so  forth  : 

It  had  been  'prentice  to  a  brewer, 

Where  this  and  more  it  did  endure  ; 

Pint  left   the  trade,  as  nianv  more 

Have  lately  done  on  the  same  score. 

Samuel  iujti.er. 


MALBROUCK. 

Malbroijck,  the  prince  of  commanders, 
Is  gone  to  the  war  in  Flanders  ; 
His  fame  is  like  Alexander's  ; 

But  when  will  he  come  home  ? 

Perhaps  at  Trinity  feast ;  or 
Perhaps  he  may  come  at  Easter. 
Egad  !  he  had  better  make  haste,  or 
We  fear  he  may  never  come. 

For  Trinity  feast  is  over, 
And  has  brought  no  news  from  Dover ; 
And  Easter  is  past,  moreover, 
And  Malbrouck  still  delays. 

Milady  in  her  watch-tower 
Spends  many  a  pensive  hour, 
Not  knowing  why  or  how  her 

Dear  lord  from  England  stays. 

While  sitting  quite  forlorn  in 
That  tower,  she  spies  returning 
A  page  clad  in  deep  mourning, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow. 

"0  page,  prithee,  come  faster  ! 
What  news  do  you  bring  of  yoiir  master  ? 
I  fear  there  is  some  disaster,  — 
Your  looks  are  so  full  of  woe." 

"  The  news  I  bring,  fair  lady," 
With  sorrowful  accent  said  he, 
"  Is  one  you  are  not  ready 
So  soon,  alas  !  to  hear. 

"  But  since  to  speak  I  'm  hurried," 
Added  this  page  quite  flurried, 
"  Malhrouck  is  dead  and  buried  !  " 
—  And  here  he  shed  a  tear. 

"  He  's  dead  !  he  's  dead  as  a  herring  ! 
For  I  beheld  his  berring, 

And  four  ollieers  transferring 

His  corpse  away  from  the  field. 

"  One  officer  carried  his  sabre  ; 
And  he  cairied  it  not  without  labor, 
Much  envying  bis  next  neighbor, 
Who  only  bore  a  shield. 

"The  third  was  helmet-bearer,  — 

That  helmet  which  on  its  wearer 
Filled  all  who  saw  with  terror, 
And  covered  a  hero's  brains. 

"  Now,  having  go1  so  fir,  I 

Find  that       by  the  Lord  Harry  !  — 

The  fourth  is  lefl  nothing  to  carry  ;  — 

So  there  the  thing  remains." 

ANONYMOUS  (French).    Translation 
of  MAHONV. 


-ff 


1       406 


POEMS   OF   PEACE  AND   WAR. 


THE   BROADSWORDS   OF   SCOTLAND. 

Now  there  's  peace  on  the  shore,  now  there 's  calm 

on  the  sea, 
Fill  a  glass  to  the  heroes  whose  swords  kept  us 

free, 
Right   descendants   of  Wallace,  Montrose,  and 
Dundee. 
0  the  broadsicords  of  old  Scotland  ! 
And  0  the  old  Scottish  broadsicords  ! 

Old  Sir  Ralph  Abercromby,  the  good   and  the 

brave,  — 
Let  him  flee  from  our  board,  let  him  sleep  with 

the  slave, 
Whose  libation  comes  slow  while  we  honor  his 

grave. ' 
0  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland  1  etc. 

Though   he  died  not,  like  him,  amid   victory's 

roar, 
Though  disaster  and  gloom  wove  his  shroud  on 

the  shore, 
Not  the  less  we  remember  the  spirit  of  Moore. 
0  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland  !  etc. 

Yea,  a  place  with  the  fallen  the  living  shall  claim ; 
We  '11  intwine  in  one  wreath  every  glorious  name, 
The   Gordon,  the  Ramsay,    the  Hope,  and   the 
Graham, 
All  the  broadswords  of  old  Scotland!  etc. 

Count  the  rocks  of  the  Spey,  count  the  groves  of 

the  Forth, 
Count  the  stars  in  the  clear,  cloudless  heaven  of 

the  north  ; 
Then  go  blazon  their  numbers,  their  names,  and 

their  worth, 
All  the  broadsicords  of  old  Scotland!  etc. 

The  highest  in  splendor,  the  humblest  in  place, 
Stand  united  in  glory,  as  kindred  in  race, 
For  the  private  is  brother  in  blood  to  his  Grace. 
0  Hie  broadswords  of  old  Scotland!  etc. 

Then  sacred  to  each  and  to  all  let  it  be, 

Fill  a  glass  to  the  heroes  whose  swords  kept  us 

free, 
Right   descendants  of  Wallace,  Montrose,  and 
Dundee. 
0  tlic  broadswords  of  old  Scotland  !  etc. 

John  Gibson  Lockhart. 


tg- 


MONTEREY. 

We  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day  ; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 


Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 
Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on,  still  on  our  column  kept, 

Through  walls  of  flame,  its  withering  way  ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 

The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And,  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play  ; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave, 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many,  — we  who  pressed 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day  ; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He  'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey  ? 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


BALAKLAYA. 

0  the  charge  at  Balaklava  ! 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge  ! 
Never  was  a  fiercer,  braver, 
Than  that  charge  at  Balaklava, 

On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 
All  the  day  the  Russian  columns, 

Fortress  huge,  and  blazing  banks, 
Poured  their  dread  destructive  volumes 

On  the  French  and  English  ranks,  — 

On  the  gallant  allied  ranks  ! 
Earth  and  sky  seemed  rent  asunder 
By  the  loud  incessant  thunder  ! 
When  a  strange  but  stern  command  — 
Needless,  heedless,  rash  command  — 
Came  to  Lu  can's  little  band,  — 
Scarce  six  hundred  men  and  horses 
Of  those  vast  contending  forces  :  — 
"  England  's  lost  unless  you  save  her  ! 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava  !  " 

O  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 


9 


TOEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


407 


a 


Far  away  the  Russian  Eagles 

Soar  o'er  smoking  hill  and  dell, 

And  their  hordes,  like  howling  beagles, 

Dense  and  countless,  round  them  yell  ! 

Thundering  cannon,  deadly  mortar, 

Sweep  the  held  in  every  quarter  ! 

Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 

Trembled  so  the  Chersonesus  ! 

Here  behold  the  Gallic  Lilies  — 
Stout  St.  Louis'  golden  Lilies  — 
Float  as  erst  at  old  Ramillies  ! 
And  beside  them,  lo  !  the  Lion  ! 
"With  her  trophied  Cross,  is  flying  ! 

Glorious  standards  !  —  shall  they  waver 

On  the  field  of  Balaklava  ? 

No,  by  Heavens  !  at  that  command  — 

Sudden,  rash,  but  stern  command — 

Charges  Lucan's  little  band  ! 

Brave  Six  Hundred  !  lo  !  they  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Down  yon  deep  and  skirted  valley, 

Where  the  crowded  cannon  play,  — 
Where  the  Czar's  fierce  cohorts  rally, 
Cossack,  Calmuck,  savage  Kalli,  — 

Down  that  gorge  they  swept  away  ! 
Down  that  new  Thermopylae, 
Flashing  swords  and  helmets  see  ! 
Underneath  the  iron  shower, 

To  the  brazen  cannon's  jaws, 
Heedless  of  their  deadly  power, 

Press  they  without  fear  or  pause,  — 

To  the  very  cannon's  jaws  ! 
Gallant  Nolan,  brave  as  Roland 

At  the  field  of  Roncesvalles, 

Daslies  down  the  fatal  valley, 
Dashes  on  the  bolt  of  death, 
Shouting  with  his  latest  breath, 
"Charge,  then,  gallants  !'do  not  waver, 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava  !  " 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Now  the  bolts  of  volleyed  thunder 
Rend  that  little  band  asunder, 
Steed  and  rider  wildly  screaming. 

Screaming  wildly,  sink  away  ; 
Late  so  proudly,  proudly  gleaming, 

Now  but  lifeless  clods  of  elay,  — 

Now  but  bleeding  clods  of  elay  ! 
Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 

Saw  such  sight  the  Chersonesus  ! 

Yet  your  remnant,  brave  Six  Hundred, 

Presses  onward,  onward,  onward, 

Till  they  storm  the  1>1 ly  pass,  — 

Till,  like  brave  Leonidas, 

They  Storm  the  deadly  pass  ! 

Sabring  Cossack,  Calmnck,  Kalli, 
In  that  wild  shot-rended  valley,  — 


Drenched  with  fire  and  blood,  like  lava, 

Awful  pass  at  Balaklava  ! 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  that  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

For  now  Russia's  rallied  forces, 
Swarming  hordes  of  Cossack  horses, 
Trampling  o'er  the  reeking  corses, 

Drive  the  thinned  assailants  back, 

Drive  the  feeble  remnant  back, 

O'er  their  late  heroic  track  ! 
Vain,  alas !  now  rent  and  sundered, 
Vain  your  struggles,  brave  Two  Hundred  ! 
Thrice  your  number  lie  asleep,  * 
In  that  valley  dark  and  deep. 
Weak  and  wounded  you  retire 
From  that  hurricane  of  fire,  — 
That  tempestuous  storm  of  fire,  — 
But  no  soldiers,  firmer,  braver, 

Ever  trod  the  field  of  fame, 
Than  the  Knights  of  Balaklava,  — 

Honor  to  each  hero's  name  ! 
Yet  their  country  long  shall  mourn 
For  her  rank  so  rashly  shorn,  — 
So  gallantly,  but  madly  shorn 

In  that  fierce  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge. 

Alexander  B.  Meek. 


DEATH  OF  ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea  ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.      I  think  that  wo 
Shall  nevermore,  at  any  future  time, 
I  telight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Though  Merlin  sware  that  1  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more  ;  hut  let.  what  will  he,  he, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  through  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  mom  i 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 


W 


a- 


408 


POEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAK. 


Which  was  ray  pride  :  for  thou  rememberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Hose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king  ; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  after-time,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not  :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,    and  lightly  bring  me 
word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  through  the  helm  — 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man  ; 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He,  stepping 

down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it  seemed 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I  gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale  : 
"Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 


Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again, 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 

I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fixed  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  :  — 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone  ?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  after-time,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this  kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  after-time 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily  : 
"What  isit  thouhastseen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath  : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Uhknightly,  traitor-hearted  !  Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widowed  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowed  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence  : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 


POEMS   OF   PEACE  AND   WAR. 


409 


Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  Jightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutched  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.     The  great 

brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an 

arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then   spoke   King  Arthur,    drawing  thicker 
breath  : 
"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  though  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard  : 
"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't  is  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  Looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  through  his  tears, 
Ami  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words  ; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
o'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  through  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  lie  walked,  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  bouse  is  mute.    Sosighed  the  King. 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  car  "Quick, 

quick  ! 
1  fear  it  is  to.,  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 


Clothed  with  his  breath,  andlooking,  ashe  walked, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clanged  round  him,  as  hebased 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream,  —  by 

these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold,  —  and  from 

them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmured  Arthur,    "Place  me  in  the 

barge  "  ; 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three 

Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and 

wept. 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all, 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed  his 

hands, 
And  called  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :   for  all   his  face  was 

white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  withered  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east  ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dashed  with  drops 
Of  onset  ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne —  were  parched  with 

dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mixed  with  the  knightly   growth  that  fringed 

his  lips. 
So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur,  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  through  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  1  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 


& 


-ff 


410 


rOEMS   OF   PEACE   AND   WAR. 


ft 


For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge  : 
"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by 

prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy 

voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them 

friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest,  —  if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted 

swan, 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE  SALLY    OF    THE    CID    FROM    THE 
CASTLE   OF  ALCOCES. 

FROM    "THE    POEM    OF  THE   CID." 

Tufa'  fain  would  sally  forth,  but  he,  thenobleCid, 
Accounted  it  as  rashness,  and  constantly  forbid. 


The  fourth  week  was  beginning,  the  third  already 

past, 
The  Cid  and  his  companions  they  are  now  agreed 

at  last. 
"The  water    is  cut  off,  the  bread  is  wellnigh 

spent, 
To  allow  us  to  depart  by  night  the  Moors  will 

not  consent ; 
To  combat  with  them  in  the  field  our  numbers 

are  but  few  ; 
Gentlemen,  tell  me  your  minds  ;  what  do  you 

think  to  do  ?" 
Minaya  Alvar  Fanez  answered  him  again  : 
"We  are  come  here  from  fair  Castile  to  live  like 

banished  men  ; 
There  are  here  six  hundred  of  us,  beside  some 

nine  or  ten. 
It  is  by  lighting  with  the  Moors  that  we  have 

earned  our  bread  ; 
In  the  name  of  God  that  made  us,  let  nothing 

more  be  said, 
Let  us  sally  forth  upon  them  by  the  dawn  of 

day." 
The  Cid  replied,  "  Minaya,  I  approve  of  what 

you  say, 
You  have  spoken  for  the  best,  and  had  done  so 

without  doubt." 
The  Moors  that  were  within  the  town  they  took 

and  turned  them  out, 
That    none    should    know   their   secret  ;    they 

labored  all  that  night  ; 
They  were  ready  for  the  combat  with  the  morning 

light. 
The  Cid  was  in  his  armor  mounted  at  their  head  ; 
He  spoke  aloud  amongst  them  ;  you  shall  hear 

the  words  he  said  : 
"  We  must  all  sally  forth  !    There  cannot  a  man 

be  spared, 
Two  footmen  only  at  the  gates  to  close  them  and 

keep  guard  ; 
If  we  are  slain  in  battle,  they  will  bury  us  here 

in  peace, 
If  we  survive  and  conquer,  our  riches  will  increase. 
And  you,  Pero  Bermuez,  the  standard  you  must 

bear ;  „ 

Advance  it  like  a  valiant  man,  evenly  and  fair, 
But  do  not  venture  forward  before  I  give  com- 
mand." 
Bermuez  took   the  standard,  he  went  and  kist 

his  hand. 
The  gates  were  then  thrown  open,  and  forth  at 

once  they  rushed. 
The   outposts  of  the  Moorish  host  back  to  the 

camp  were  pushed  ; 
The  camp  was  all  in  tumult,  and  there  was  such 

a  thunder 
Of  cymbals   and   of  drums,  as  if  earth   would 

cleave  in  sunder. 


c& 


c& 


POEMS  OF  PEACE  AND  AVAR. 


411 


a 


There  you   might  see  the  Moors  arming  them- 
selves in  haste, 
And  the  two  main  battles  how  they  were  forming 

fast ; 
Horsemen  and  footmen  mixt,  a  countless  troop 

and  vast. 
The  Moors  are  moving  forward,  the  battle  soon 

must  join. 
"  My  men,  stand  here  in  order,  ranged  upon  a  line  ! 
Let  not  a  man  move  from  his  rank  before  I  give 

the  sign." 
Pero  Bermuez  heard  the  word,  but  he  could  not 

refrain. 
He  held  the  banner  in  his  hand,  he   gave   his 

horse  the  rein  ; 
"You   see   yon   foremost   squadron   there,    the 

thickest  of  the  foes, 
Noble  Cid,  God  be  your  aid,  for  there  your  banner 

goes  ! 
Let  him  that  serves  and  honors  it  show  the  duty 

that  he  owes." 
Earnestly  the  Cid  called  out,  "For  Heaven's  sake, 

be  still  !  " 
Bermuez  cried,  "  I  cannot  hold,"  so  eager  was  his 

will. 
He  spurred  his  horse  and  drove  him  on  amid  the 

Moorish  rout  ; 
They  strove  to  win  the  banner,  and  compast  him 

about  ; 
Had   not   his  armor  been  so  true,  he  had   lost 

either  life  or  limb. 
The  Cid  called  out  again,    "For  Heaven's  sake. 

succor  him  !  " 
Their  shields  before  their  breasts,  forth  at  once 

they  go, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  levelled  fair  and  low, 
Their  banners  and  their  crests  waving  in  a  row, 
Their  heads  all  stooping  down  toward  the  saddle- 
bow. 


And  many  a  Moorish  shield  lie  shattered  on  the 

plain, 
The   pennons  that  were  white  marked  with  a 

crimson  stain, 
The  horses  running  wild  whose  riders  had  been 

slain. 
The  Christians  call  upon  St.  James,  the  Moors 

upon  Mahound,  — - 
There  were  thirteen  hundred  of  them  slain  on  a 

little  spot  of  ground. 
Minaya  Alvar  Fafiez  smote  with  all  his  might, 
He  went  as  he  was  wont,  and  was  foremost  in  the 

light  ; 
There  was   Galin  Garcia,    of  courage   iirm  and 

clear ; 
Felez  Munioz,  the  Cid's  own  cousin  dear; 
Antolinez  of  Burgos,  a  hardy  knight  and  keen, 
Munio  Gustioz,  his  pupil  that  had  been  ; 
The  Cid  on  his  gilded  saddle  above  them  all  was 

seen  ; 
There  was  Martin  Munioz  that  ruled  in  Mont- 
mayor  ; 
There  were  Alvar  Fafiez  and  Alvar  Salvador  ;  — 
These  were  the  followers  of  the  Cid,  with  many 

others  more, 
In  rescue  of  Bermuez  and  the  standard  that  he 

bore. 
Minaya  is  dismounted,  his  courser  has  been  slain, 
He  fights  upon  his  feet,  and  smites  with  might 

and  main. 
The  Cid  came  all  in  haste  tohelphim  tohorse  again. 
He   saw  a  Moor  Avell  mounted,  thereof  he  was 

full  fain  ; 
Through  the  girdle  at  a  stroke  he  cast  him  to  the 

plain  ; 
He  called  to  Minaya  Fafiez  and  reached  him  out  the 

rein, 
' '  Mount  and  ride,  Minaya,  you  are  my  right  hand ; 
AVe  shall  have  need  of  you  to-day,  these  Moors 

will  not  disband  !  " 


The  Cid  was  in  the  midst,  his  shout  was  heard 

afar>  Minaya  leapt  upon  the  horse,  his  sword  was  in 

"  I  am  Rui  Diaz,  the  Champion  of  Bivar  ;  Ids  hand, 

Strike    amongst    them,    gentlemen,    for    sweet  Nothing  that  came  near  him  could  resist  him  or 


mercy's  sake  !" 
There  where  Bermuez  fought  amidst  the  foe  they 

brake, 
Three   hundred   bannered  knights, — it  was  a 

gallant  show : 
Time  hundred   Moors  they  killed,  a  man   with 

every  blow  ; 
When  they  wheeled  and  turned,  as  many  more 

lav  slain, 
You  might  see  them  raise  their  lances  and  level 

them  again  ; 
There  you  might  see  the  breastplates,  how  they 

were  cleft  in  twain, 


withstand  ; 
All  that  fall  within  his  reach  he  despatches  as 

he  goes. 
The  Cid  rode  to  King  Fariz,  and  struck  at  him 

three  blows  ; 
The  third  was  far  the  best,  it  forced  the  blood  to 

(low  : 
The  stream  ran  from  his  side,  and  stained   his 

arms  below  ; 
The  King  caught  round  the  rein,  and  turned  his 

back  to  go. 
The  Cid  has  won  the  battle  with  that  single  blow. 

Dy  an  anonymous  translator  In  the  appendix  toSOUTHEY*S 
translation  of  "  The  Chronicle  of  the  Cid." 


co_ 


^XP 


a- 


IH— 


f»-v^tr^:^•-J.-.-|^f.^ 


[S 


•a 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


tf— 


-  Lr 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


MORAL  COSMETICS. 

Ye  who  would  have  your  features  florid, 
Lithe  limbs,  bright  eyes,  unwrinkled  forehead, 
From  age's  devastation  horrid, 

Adopt  this  plan,  — 
'T  will  make,  in  elimate  cold  or  torrid, 

A  hale  old  man. 

Avoid  in  youth  luxurious  diet, 
Restrain  the  passions'  lawless  riot ; 
Devoted  to  domestic  quiet, 

Be  wisely  gay  ; 
So  shall  ye,  spite  of  age's  fiat, 

Resist  decay. 

Seek  not  in  Mammon's  worship  pleasure, 
But  find  your  richest,  dearest  treasure 
In  God,  his  word,  his  work,  not  leisure  : 

The  mind,  not  sense, 
Is  the  sole  scale  by  which  to  measure 

Your  opulence. 

This  is  the  solace,  this  the  science, 
Life's  purest,  sweetest,  best  appliance, 
That  disappoints  not  man's  reliance, 

Whate'er  his  state  ; 
But  challenges,  with  calm  defiance, 

Time,  fortune,  fate. 

Horace  Smith. 


ADVICE. 

Take  the  open  air, 

The  more  you  take  the  better  ; 
Follow  Nature's  laws 

To  the  very  letter. 
Let  the  doctors  go 

To  the  Bay  of  Biscay, 
L(*t  alone  the  gin, 

The  brandy,  and  the  whiskey. 
Freely  exercise, 

Keep  your  spirits  cheerful  ; 
Let  no  dread  of  sickness 

.Make  you  ever  tearful. 


Eat  the  simplest  food, 

Drink  the  pure,  cold  water, 
Then  you  will  be  well, 

Or  at  least  you  oughter. 


ANONYMOUS. 


A   FAREWELL   TO   TOBACCO. 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 
Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse, 
If  I  can  a  passage  see 
In  this  word-perplexity, 
Or  a  fit  expression  find, 
Or  a  language  to  my  mind 
(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant), 
To  take  leave  of  thee,  great  plant ! 
Or  in  any  terms  relate 
Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate  ; 
For  I  hate,  yet  love,  thee  so, 
That,  whichever  thing  I  show, 
The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A  constrained  hyperbole, 
And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  for  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine  ! 
Bacchus's  black  servant,  negro  fine  ! 
Sorcerer  !  that  mak'st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion, 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women  !     Thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much,  too,  in  the  female  way, 
While  thou  suck'st  the  laboring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses,  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dosl  bind  us 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us, 
And  ill  fortune,  thai  would  thwart  us, 
shouts  at  rovers,  shooting  al  us; 
While  each  man,  through  thy  heightening  steam, 
Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem  ; 
And  all  about  us  does  express 


m- 


•ff 


41C 


POEMS   OF   TEMPERANCE  AND   LABOR. 


a 


(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us 
That  oar  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  chimeras, 
Monsters,  —  that  who  see  us,  fear  us  ; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  lxion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.     But  what  art  thou, 
That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
"What  his  deity  can  do,  — 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  ? 
Some  few  vapors  thou  mayst  raise, 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze ; 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born  ! 
The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn, 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god's  victories  than,  before, 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant :  only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art ; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 
The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume,  — 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sovereign  to  the  brain. 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Roses,  violets,  but  toys 
Por  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinkingest  of  the  stinking  kind  ! 
Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind  ! 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foyson, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison  ! 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 
Hemlock,  aconite  — 

Nay,  rather, 
Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue  ! 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you  ! 
'T  was  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee  ; 
None  e'er  prospered  who  defamed  thee  ; 


Irony  all,  and  feigned  abuse, 
Such  as  perplext  lovers  use 
At  a  need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 
Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 
They  borrow  language  of  dislike  ; 
And,  instead  of  dearest  Miss, 
Jewel,  honey,  sweetheart,  bliss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 
Call  her  cockatrice  and  siren, 

Basilisk,  and  all  that 's  evil, 
Witch,  hyena,  mermaid,  devil, 

Ethiop,  wench,  and  blackamoor, 

Monkey,  ape,  and  twenty  more,  — 

Friendly  trait'ress,  loving  foe,  — 

Not  that  she  is  truly  so, 

But  no  other  way  they  know, 

A  contentment  to  express 

Borders  so  upon  excess 

That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 

Whether  it  be  from  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constrained  to  part 
With  what 's  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow  's  at  the  height 
Lose  discrimination  quite, 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 
On  the  darling  thing,  whatever, 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 
Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave  thee. 
For  thy  sake,  tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die, 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 
But,  as  she  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state 
Though  a  widow,  or  divorced,  — 
So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced, 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Catherine  of  Spain  ; 
And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  tobacco  boys  ; 
Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician, 
Am  debarred  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favors,  I  may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odors,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbor's  wife  ; 
And  still  live  in  the  by-places 


nu 


W 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


41' 


•-a 


And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces  ; 

And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 

An  uneonquered  Canaanite. 

Charles  Lamb. 


GO,  FEEL  WHAT   I   HAVE  FELT. 

[By  a  young-  lady  who  was  told  that  she  was  a  monomaniac  in  her 
hatred  of  alcoholic  liquors.] 

Go,  feel  what  I  have  felt, 

Go,  bear  what  I  have  borne  ; 
Sink  'neath  a  blow  a  father  dealt, 
And  the  cold,  proud  world's  scorn. 
Thus  struggle  on  from  year  to  year, 
1  hy  sole  relief  the  scalding  tear. 

Go,  weep  as  I  have  wept 

O'er  a  loved  father's  fall ; 
See  every  cherished  promise  swept, 
Youth's  sweetness  turned  to  gall ; 
Hope's  faded  flowers  strewed  all  the  way 
That  led  me  up  to  woman's  day. 

Go,  kneel  as  1  have  knelt ; 

Implore,  beseech,  and  pray, 
Strive  the  besotted  heart  to  melt, 
The  downward  course  to  stay  ; 
Be  cast  with  bitter  curse  aside,  — 
Thy  prayers  burlesqued^  thy  tears  defied. 

Go,  stand  where  I  have  stood, 

And  see  the  strong  man  bow  ; 
With  gnashing  teeth,  lips  bathed  in  blood, 
And  cold  and  livid  brow  ; 
Go,  catch  bis  wandering  glance,  and  see 
There  mirrored  his  soul's  misery. 

Go,  hear  what  I  have  heard,  — 

The  sobs  of  sad  despair, 
As  memory's  feeling  fount  hath  stirred, 
And  its  revealings  there 
Have  told  him  what  he  might  have  been, 
Had  he  the  drunkard's  fate  foreseen. 

Go  to  my  mother's  ride, 

And  her  crushed  spiril  cheer  ; 

Thine  own  deep  anguish  hide, 
Wipe  from  her  cheek  the  tear ; 
Marls  her  dimmed  eye,  her  furrowed  brow, 
The  gray  thai  streaks  her  dark  hair  now, 
The  toil-worn  frame,  the  trembling  limb, 
And  trace  t he  ruin  back  to  him 
Whose  plighted  faith,  in  early  youth, 
Promised  eternal  love  and  truth, 
Bui  who,  forsworn,  hath  yielded  up 
This  promise  to  the  deadly  cup, 
And  led  her  down  from  love  and  light, 
From  all  that  made  her  pathway  bright, 


And  chained  her  there  mid  want  and  strife, 
That  lowly  thing,  —  a  drunkard's  wife  ! 
And  stamped  on  childhood's  brow,  so  mild, 
That  withering  blight,  —  a  drunkard's  child  ! 

Go,  hear,  and  see,  and  feel,  and  know 

All  that  my  soul  hath  felt  and  known, 
Then  look  within  the  wine-cup's  glow  ; 
See  if  its  brightness  can  atone  ; 
Think  if  its  flavor  you  would  try, 
If  all  proclaimed,  — '  T  is  drink  and  die. 

Tell  me  I  hate  the  bowl,  — 

Hate  is  a  feeble  word  ; 
I  loathe,  abhor,  my  very  soul 

By  strong  disgust  is  stirred 
Whene'er  I  see,  or  hear,  or  tell 

Of  the  DARK  BEVERAGE  OF  HELL  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


•a- 


THE   VAGABONDS. 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger 's  my  dog  :  —  come  here,  you  scamp  ! 
Jump  for  the  gentlemen,  —  mind  your  eye  ! 

Over  the  table,  —  look  out  for  the  lamp  !  — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  ; 

Five  years  we  've  tramped  through  wind  and 
weather, 
And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  were  cold, 

And  ate  and  drank  —  and  starved  together. 

We  've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you  ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow  ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there  's  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  the  strings), 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle. 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings  ! 

Xo,  thank  ye,  sir,  —  I  never  drink  ; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral,  — 
Are  n't  we,  Roger?  —  see  him  wink  !  — 

Well,  something  hot,  then,  —  we  won't  quarrel. 
He  's  thirsty  too,  —  see  him  nod  his  head? 

What  a  pity,  sir,  thai  dogs  can't  talk  ! 
He  understands  every  word  thai  's  said,  — 

And  heknows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I  've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I  've  not  losl  the  respi 

(Here's  to  you,  sir  !)  even  of  my  dog. 
Bu1  he  sticks  by  through  thick  and  thin  ; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 
Ami  rags  thai  smell  of  tobacco  and  ^rin, 

He  11  follow  while  he  has  eye-,  in  his  sock 


-ff 


a- 


418 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


ft 


There  is  n't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master  ! 
No,  sir  !  —  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 

By  George  !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water  !  — 
That  is,  there 's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter  ! 

We  '11  have  some  music,  if  you're  willing, 
And  Roger  (hem  !  what  a  plague  a  cough  is, 
sir  !) 
Shall  march  a  little.     Start,  you  villain  ! 

Stand  straight !    'Bout  face  !   Salute  your  offi- 
cer ! 
Put  up  that  paw  !     Dress  !     Take  your  rifle  ! 
(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see  !)     Now  hold 
your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle, 
To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier  ! 

March  !   Halt !   Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drains  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  —  that 's  five  ;  he 's  mighty  knowing  ! 

The  night 's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  !  — 
Quick,  sir  !     I  'm  ill,  —  my  brain  is  going  ! 

Some   brandy,  —  thank   you,  —  there  !  —  it 
passes  ! 

Why  not  reform  ?     That 's  easily  said  ; 

But  I  've  gone  through  such  wretched  treat- 
ment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach 's  past  reform  ; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I  'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love,  — but  I  took  to  drink,  — 

The  same  old  story  ;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features,  — 

You  need  n't  laugh,  sir  ;  they  were  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures  ; 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  would  n't  have 
guessed 
That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  liddle  and  dog, 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog  ! 


She  's  married  since,  —  a  parson's  wife  ; 

'T  was  better  for  her  that  we  should  part,  — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her  ?     Once  :  I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road,  a  carriage  stopped  ; 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped  1 

You  've  set  me  talking,  sir  ;  I  'm  sorry  ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change  ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ?  you  find  it  strange  ? 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'T  was  well  she  died  before —    Do  you  know 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain  ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start. 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing  in  place  of  a  heart  ? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were,  — 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I  'm  better  now  ;  that  glass  was  warming. 

You  rascal  !  limber  your  lazy  feet  ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street. 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the    sleepers    need    neither   victuals    nor 
drink ;  — 

The  sooner  the  better  for  Roger  and  me  ! 

J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 


THE   POOR  MAN   AND   THE  FIEND. 

A  fiend  once  met  a  humble  man 

At  night,  in  the  cold  dark  street, 
And  led  him  into  a  palace  fair, 

Where  music  circled  sweet ; 
And  light  and  warmth  cheered  the  wanderer's 
heart, 

From  frost  and  darkness  screened, 
Till  his  brain  grew  mad  beneath  the  joy, 

And  he  worshipped  before  the  fiend. 

Ah  !  well  if  he  ne'er  had  knelt  to  that  fiend, 

For  a  taskmaster  grim  was  he  ; 
And  he  said,  "  One  half  of  thy  life  on  earth 

I  enjoin  thee  to  yield  to  me  ; 
And  when,  from  rising  till  set  of  sun, 

Thou  hast  toiled  in  the  heat  or  snow, 
Let  thy  gains  on  mine  altar  an  offering  be  "  ; 

And  the  poor  man  ne'er  said  "No  ! " 


# 


fi- 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


419    T 


The  poor  man  had  health,  more  dear  than  gold  ; 

Stout  bone  and  muscle  strong, 
That  neither  faint  nor  weary  grew, 

To  toil  the  June  day  long  ; 
And  the  fiend,  his  god,  cried  hoarse  and  loud, 

"  Thy  strength  thou  must  forego, 
Or  thou  no  worshipper  art  of  mine  "  ; 

And  the  poor  man  ne'er  said  "  No  !  " 

Three  children  blest  the  poor  man's  home,  — 

Stray  angels  dropped  on  earth,  — 
The  liend  beheld  their  sweet  blue  eyes, 

And  he  laughed  in  fearful  mirth  : 
"  Bring  forth  thy  little  ones,"  quoth  he, 

"  My  godhead  wills  it  so  ! 
I  want  an  evening  sacrifice  "  ; 

And  the  poor  man  ne'er  said  "  No  ! " 

A  young  wife  sat  by  the  poor  man's  fire, 

Who,  since  she  blushed  a  bride, 
Had  gilded  his  sorrow,  and  brightened  his  joys, 

His  guardian,  friend,  and  guide. 
Foul  fall  the  fiend  !  he  gave  command, 

"  Come,  mix  the  cup  of  woe, 
Bid  thy  young  wife  drain  it  to  the  dregs  "  ; 

And  the  poor  man  ne'er  said  "  No  !  " 

0,  misery  now  for  this  poor  man  ! 

O,  deepest  of  misery  ! 
Next  the  fiend  his  godlike  reason  took, 

And  amongst  beasts  fed  he  ; 
And  when  the  sentinel  mind  was  gone, 

He  pilfered  his  soul  also  ; 
Ami  —  marvel  of  marvels  !  —  he  murmured  not ; 

The  poor  man  ne'er  said  "  No  !  " 

Now,  men  and  matrons  in  your  prime, 

Children  and  grandsires  old, 
Come  listen,  with  soul  as  well  as  ear, 

This  saying  whilst  I  unfold  ; 
0,  listen  !  till  your  brain  whirls  round, 

And  your  heart  is  sick  to  think, 
That  in  England's  isle  all  this  befell, 

And  the  name  of  the  fiend  was  —  Drink  ! 

Rev.  Mr.  Maclellan. 


THE   HAPPY    HEART. 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ? 

< »  sweet  content ! 
Art  thou  rich,  ye1  is  thy  mind  perplexed? 

0  punishment  ! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers? 
0  sWeet  content  !  0  sweet,  0  sweet  content ! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 

Honesl  labor  bears  a  lovely  face  ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny  ! 


Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 

0  sweet  content ! 

Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine 

own  tears  ? 

0  punishment ! 

Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears 

No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king  ! 

0  sweet  content  !  0  sweet,  0  sweet  content  ! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 

Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face  ; 

Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny  ! 

T.  Decker. 


SWEET   IS   THE   PLEASURE. 

Sweet  is  the  pleasure 

Itself  cannot  spoil ! 
Is  not  true  leisure 

One  with  true  toil  ? 

Thou  that  wouldst  taste  it, 

Still  do  thy  best ; 
Use  it,  not  waste  it,  — 

Else  't  is  no  rest.  . 

Wouldst  behold  beauty 

Near  thee  ?  all  round  ? 
Only  hath  duty 

Such  a  sight  found. 

Rest  is  not  quitting 

The  busy  career ; 
Rest  is  the  fitting 

Of  self  to  its  sphere. 

'T  is  the  brook's  motion, 

Clear  without  strife, 
Fleeing  to  ocean 

After  its  life. 

Deeper  devotion 

Nowhere  hath  knelt ; 
Fuller  emotion 

Heart  never  felt. 

*T  is  loving  and  serving 

The  highest  and  best  ; 

'T  is  onwards  !  unswerving,  — 

And  that  is  true  rest. 

John-  Sullivan  Dwight. 


THE   VILLAGE   BLACKSMITH. 

Unpi:h  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 

The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 
With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 


ft 


-S1 


420 


POEMS   OF   TEMPERANCE   AND   LABOR. 


ft 


His  hair  is  crisp  and  black  and  long  ; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat,  — 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can  ; 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 
Like  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children,  coming  home  from  school, 

Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 
They  love  to  see  the  naming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taxight  ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought  ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought'. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 


THE  HUSBANDMAN. 

Earth,  of  man  the  bounteous  mother, 
Feeds  him  still  with  corn  and  wine  ; 

He  who  best  would  aid  a  brother 
Shares  with  him  these  gifts  divine. 


Many  a  power  within  her  bosom, 
Noiseless,  hidden,  works  beneath  ; 

Hence  are  seed  and  leaf  and  blossom, 
Golden  ear,  and  clustered  wreath. 

These  to  swell  with  strength  and  beauty 

Is  the  royal  task  of  man  ; 
Man  's  a  king  ;  his  throne  is  duty, 

Since  his  work  on  earth  began. 

Bud  and  harvest,  bloom  and  vintage,  — 
These,  like  man,  are  fruits  of  earth  ; 

Stamped  in  clay,  a  heavenly  mintage, 
All  from  dust  receive  their  birth. 

Barn  and  mill,  and  wine-vat's  treasures, 
Earthly  goods  for  earthly  lives,  — 

These  are  Nature's  ancient  pleasures, 
These  her  child  from  her  derives. 

What  the  dream  but  vain  rebelling, 
If  from  earth  we  sought  to  flee  ? 

'T  is  our  stored  and  ample  dwelling  ; 
'T  is  from  it  the  skies  we  see. 

Wind  and  frost,  and  hour  and  season, 
Land  and  water,  sun  and  shade,  — 

Work  with  these,  as  bids  thy  reason, 
For  they  work  thy  toil  to  aid. 

Sow  thy  seed  and  reap  in  gladness  ! 

Man  himself  is  all  a  seed  ; 

Hope  and  hardship,  joy  and  sadness,  — 

Slow  the  plant  to  ripeness  lead. 

John  Sterling. 


THE   USEFUL   PLOUGH. 

A  country  life  is  sweet  ! 
In  moderate  cold  and  heat, 

To  walk  in  the  air  how  pleasant  and  fair  ! 
In  every  field  of  wheat, 

The  fairest  of  flowers  adorning  the  bowers, 
And  every  meadow's  brow  ; 

So  that  I  say,  no  courtier  may 

Compare  with  them  who  clothe  in  gray, 
And  follow  the  useful  plough. 

They  rise  with  the  morning  lark, 
And  labor  till  almost  dark, 

Then,  folding  their  sheep,  they  hasten  to  sleep  ; 
While  every  pleasant  park 

Next   morning   is   ringing    with    birds    that 
are  singing, 
On  each  green,  tender  bough. 

With  what  content  and  merriment 
Their  days  are  spent  whose  minds  are  bent 

To  follow  the  useful  plough  ! 


ANONVMOUS. 


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HONEST    TOIL. 

"  These  are  the  hands  ivhose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings" 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR 


421 


ft 


THE   GOOD   OLD   PLOUGH. 

AS   SUNG   BY   THE   HUTCHINSONS. 

Let  theni  sing  who  may  of  the  battle  fray, 

And  the  deeds  that  have  long  since  past ; 
Let  them  chant  in  praise  of  the  tar  whose  days, 

Are  spent  on  the  ocean  vast, 
I  would  render  to  these  all  the  worship  you  please, 

I  would  honor  them  even  now  , 
But  I  'd  give  far  more  from  my  heart's  full  store 

To  the  cause  of  the  Good  Old  Plough, 

Let  them  laud  the  notes  that  in  music  float 

Through  the  bright  and  glittering  hall  ; 
While  the  amorous  twirl  of  the  hair's  bright  curl 

Round  the  shoulder  of  beauty  fall, 
But  dearer  to  me  is  the  song  from  the  tree, 

And  the  rich  and  blossoming  bough  ; 
0,  these  are  the  sweets  which  the  rustic  greets 

As  he  follows  the  Good  Old  Plough  ! 

Full  many  there  be  that  daily  we  see, 

With  a  selfish  and  hollow  pride, 
Who  the  ploughman's  lot,  in  his  humble  cot, 

With  a  scornful  look  deride  ; 
But  1  'd  rather  take,  aye,  a  hearty  shake 

From  his  hand  than  to  wealth  I  'd  bow  ; 
For  the  honest  grasp  of  his  hand's  rough  clasp, 

Has  stood  by  the  Good  Old  Plough. 

All  honor  be,  then,  to  these  gray  old  men, 

"When  at  last  they  are  bowed  with  toil ! 
Their  warfare  then  o'er,  they  battle  no  more, 

For  they've  conquered  the  stubborn  soil. 
And  the  chaplet  each  wears  is  his  silver  hairs  ; 

And  ne'ei  shall  the  victor's  brow 
With  a  laun-1  crown  to  the  grave  go  down 

Like  the  sons  of  the  Good  Old  Plough. 

ANONYMOUS. 


TO  THE   HARVEST   MOON 

Pleasing  'tis,  0  modest  Moon  ! 
Now  the  night  is  at  her  noon, 
'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie, 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
Fanning  soft  the  sun-tanned  wheat, 
Ripened  by  the  summer's  heat ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye, 

And  thinking  soon, 

0  modest  Moon  ; 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road, 

To  see  the  load, 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest-home 


'  Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies, 
The  husbandman,  with  sleep-sealed  eyes  : 
He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 
The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound  ; 
0,  may  no  hurricane  destroy 
His  visionary  views  of  joy  ! 
God  of  the  winds  !  0,  hear  his  humble  prayer, 
And  while   the    Moon  of  Harvest   shines,    thy 
blustering  whirlwind  spare  ! 

Henry  Kirke  White. 


THE   PLOUGHMAN. 

Clear  the  brown  path  to  meet  his  coulter's  gleam ! 
Lo  !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking  team, 
With  toil's  bright  dew-drops  on  his  sunburnt  brow, 
The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough  ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun. 
Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done, 
Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 
Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have  trod  , 
Still  where  he  treads  the  stubborn  clods  divide, 
The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and  wide  ; 
Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  upheaves, 
Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield  cleaves  ; 
Up  the  steep  hillside,  where  the  laboring  train 
Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level  plain, 
Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with  oozing  clay, 
The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way  ; 
At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound, 
The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glistening  round. 
Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  appears, 
And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings  ; 
This  is  the  page  whose  letters  shall  be  seen, 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living  green  ; 
This  is  the  scholar  whose  immortal  pen 
Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to  men  ; 
These  are  the  lines  that  heaven-commanded  Toil 
Shows  on  his  deed,  —  the  charter  of  the  soil ! 

(i  gracious  Mother,  who-.'  benignant  breast 
Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest, 
How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every  clime, 
Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  Time  I 
Westainthy  flowers,  — they  blossom  o'er  the  dead 
We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread  ; 
O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has  torn, 
Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled  corn  ; 
Our  maddening  conflicts  sear  thy  fairest  plain, 
Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 
Yet,  0  our  Mother,  while  uncounted  charms 
Steal  round  oui  hearts  in  thine  embracing  arms, 
Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 
And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  strength  away; 


<&- 


-ff 


[fr 


422 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


No,  by  these  hills  whose  banners  now  displayed 
In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed  ; 
By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  crests 
The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles'  nests  ; 
By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle  screens, 
And  feedswith  streamlets  fromits  dark  ravines,  — ■ 
True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms  shall  toil 
To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted  soil ; 
And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind, 
If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall  unbind, 
These  stately  forms,  that,  bending  even  now. 
Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble  plough, 
Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land, 
The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand, 
Till  o'er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph  run  ; 
The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  ploughshare  won  ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  FARMER'S    BOY, 

"WHERF.nobleGrafton  spreads  his  rich  domains, 
Round  Euston's  watered  vale  and  sloping  plains, 
Where  woods  and  groves  in  solemn  grandeur  rise, 
Where  the  kite  brooding  unmolested  flies, 
The  woodcock  and  the  painted  pheasant  race, 
And  skulking  foxes,  destined  for  the  chase  ; 
There  Giles,  untaught  and  unrepining,  strayed 
Through  every  copse  and   grove   and  winding 

glade  ; 
There  his  first  thoughts  to  Nature's  charms  in- 
clined, 
That  stamps  devotion  on  the  inquiring  mind. 
A  little  farm  his  generous  master  tilled, 
"Who  with  peculiar  grace  his  station  filled  ; 
By  deeds  of  hospitality  endeared, 
Served  from  affection,  tor  his  worth  revered 
A  happy  offspring  blest,  his  plenteous  board, 
His  fields  were  fruitful,  and  his  barns  welJ  stored, 
And  fourscore  ewes  he  fed,  a  sturdy  team, 
And  lowing  kine  that  grazed  beside  the  stream  ; 
Unceasing  industry  he  kept  in  view, 
And  never  lacked  a  job  for  Giles  to  do. 

Fled  now  the  sullen  murmurs  of  the  north, 
The  splendid  raiment  of  the  Spring  peeps  forth  ; 
Her  universal  green  and  the  clear  sky 
Delight  still  more  and  more  the  gazing  eye. 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  in  rising  moisture  strong, 
Shoots  up  the  simple  flower,  or  creeps  along 
The  mellowed  soil,  imbibing  fairer  hues, 
Orsweetsfromfrequentshowersandevening  dews ; 
That  summon  from  their  sheds  the  slumbering 

ploughs, 
Whilehealth  impregnates  every  breeze  that  blows. 
No  wheels  support  the  diving,  pointed  share  ; 
No  groaning  ox  is  doomed  to  labor  there  ; 


No  helpmates  teach  the  docile  steed  his  road 
(Alike  unknown  the  ploughboy  and  the  goad) ; 
But  unassisted,  through  each  toilsome  day, 
With  smiling  brow  the  ploughman  cleaves  his  way, 
Draws  his  fresh  parallels,  and,  widening  still, 
Treads  slow  the  heavy  dale,  or  climbs  the  hill. 
Strong  on  the  wing  his  busy  followers  play, 
Where  writhing  earthworms  meet  the  unwelcome 

day, 
Till  all  is  changed,  and  hill  and  level  dowr. 
Assume  a  livery  of  sober  brown  ; 
Again  disturbed  when  Giles  with  wearying  strides 
From  ridge  to  ridge  the  ponderous  harrow  guides. 
His  heels  deep  sinking,  every  step  he  goes, 
Till  dirt  adhesive  loads  his  clouted  shoes. 
Welcome,  green  headland  !  firm  beneath  his  feet : 
Welcome,  the  friendly  bank's  refreshing  seat  ; 
There,  warm  with  toil,  his  panting  horses  browse 
Their  sheltering  canopy  of  pendent  boughs  ; 
Till  rest  delicious  chase  each  transient  pain, 
And  new-born  vigor  swell  in  every  vein. 
Hour  after  hour  and  day  to  day  succeeds, 
Till  every  clod  and  deep-drawn  furrow  spreads 
To  crumbling  mould,  —  a  level  surface  clear, 
And  strewed  with  corn  to  crown  the  rising  year ; 
And  o'er  the  whole  Giles,  once  transverse  again, 
In  earth's  moist  bosom  buries  up  the  grain. 
The  work  is  done  ;  no  more  to  man  is  given  ; 
The  grateful  farmer  trusts  the  rest  to  Heaven. 

His  simple  errand  done,  he  homeward  hies  ; 
Another  instantly  his  place  supplies. 
The  clattering  dairy-maid  immersed  in  steam, 
Singing  and  scrubbing  midst  her  milk  and  cream, 
Bawls  out,  "  Go  fetch  the  cows  !  "  —  he  hears  no 

more  ; 
For  pigs   and  ducks  and   turkeys   throng  the 

door. 
And  sitting  hens  for  constant  war  prepared,  — 
A  concert  strange  to  that  which  late  he  heard. 
Straight  to  the  meadow  then  he  whistling  goes ; 
With  well-known  halloo  calls  his  lazy  cows  ; 
Down  the  rich  pasture  heedlessly  they  graze, 
Or  hear  the  summons  with  an  idle  gaze  , 
For  well  they  know  the  cow-yard  yields  no  more 
Its  tempting  fragrance,  nor  its  wintry  store. 
Reluctance  marks  their  steps,  sedate  and  slow, 
The  right  of  conquest  all  the  law  they  know  ; 
The  strong  press  on,  the  weak  by  turns  succeed, 
And  one  superior  always  takes  the  lead, 
Is  ever  foremost  wheresoe'er  they  stray, 
Allowed  precedence,  undisputed  sway  ; 
With  jealous  pride  her  station  is  maintained, 
For  many  a  broil  that  post  of  honor  gained. 
At  home,  the  yard  affords  a  grateful  scene, 
For  spring  makes  e'en  a  miry  cow-yard  clean. 
Thence  from  its  chalky  bed  behold  conveyed 
The  rich  manure  that  drenching  winter  made, 


B- 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


ft 


423 


Which,  piled  near  home,  grows  green  with  many 

a  weed, 
A  promised  nutriment  for  autumn's  seed. 
Forth  comes  the  maid,  and  like  the  morning  smiles; 
The  mistress  too,  and  followed  close  by  Giles. 
A  friendly  tripod  forms  their  humble  seat, 
With  pails  bright  scoured  and  delicately  sweet. 
Where  shadowing  elms  obstruct  the  morning  ray 
Begins  the  work,  begins  the  simple  lay  ; 
The  full-charged  udder  yields  its  willing  stream 
While  Mary  sings  some  lover's  amorous  dream  ; 
And  crouching  Giles  beneath  a  neighboring  tree 
Tugs  o'er  his  pail,  and  chants  with  equal  glee  ; 
Whose  hat  with  battered  brim,  of  nap  so  bare, 
From  the  cow's  side  purloins  a  coat  of  hair,  — 
A  mottled  ensign  of  his  harmless  trade, 
An  unambitious,  peaceable  cockade. 
As  unambitious,  too,  that  cheerful  aid 
The  mistress  yields  beside  her  rosy  maid  ; 
With  joy  she  views  her  plenteous  reeking  store, 
And  bears  a  brimmer  to  the  dairy  door. 
Her  cows  dismissed,  the  luscious  mead  to  roam, 
Till  eve  again  recall  them  loaded  home. 

ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 


THE  SONG  OF   THE   FORGE. 

Clang,  clang  !  the  massive  anvils  ring  ; 

Clang,  clang  !  a  hundred  hammers  swing  ; 

Like  the  thunder-rattle  of  a  tropic  sky, 

The  mighty  blows  still  multiply,  — 

Clang,  clang  ! 

Say,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow, 

What  are  your  strong  arms  forging  now  ? 

Clang,  clang  !  —  we  forge  the  coulter  now,  — 

The  coulter  of  the  kindly  plough. 

Sweet  Mary  mother,  bless  our  toil  ! 

May  its  broad  furrow  still  unbind 

To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind, 

The  most  benignant  soil ! 

Clang,  clang  !  —  our  coulter's  course  shall  be 
On  many  a  sweet  and  sheltered  lea, 
By  many  a  streamlet's  silver  tide  ; 
Amidst  the  song  of  morning  birds, 
Amidst  the  low  of  sauntering  herds, 
Amidst  soft  breezes,  which  do  stray 
Through  woodbine  hedges  and  sweet  May, 
Along  the  green  hill's  side. 

When  regal  Autumn's  bounteous  hand 
With  wide-spread  glorj  clothes  the  land, — 
When  to  the  valleys,  from  tie  brow 
Of  each  resplendent  slope,  is  tolled 
A  ruddy  sea  of  living  gold,  — 
We  bless,  we  bless  the  plough. 


Clang,  clang  !  —  again,  my  mates,  what  grows 
Beneath  the  hammer's  potent  blows  ? 
(link,  clank  !  —  we  forge  the  giant  chain, 
Which  bears  the  gallant  vessel's  strain 
Midst  stormy  winds  and  adverse  tides  ; 
Secured  by  this,  the  good  ship  braves 
The  rocky  roadstead,  and  the  waves 
Which  thunder  on  her  sides. 

Anxious  no  more,  the  merchant  sees 
The  mist  drive  dark  before  the  breeze, 
The  storm-cloud  on  the  hill ; 
Calmly  he  rests,  —  though  far  away, 
In  boisterous  climes,  his  vessel  lay,  — 
Reliant  on  our  skill. 

Say  on  what  sands  these  links  shall  sleep, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  solemn  deep  ? 
By  Afric's  pestilential  shore  ; 
By  many  an  iceberg,  lone  and  hoar  ; 
By  many  a  balmy  western  isle, 
Basking  in  spring's  perpetual  smile  ; 
By  stormy  Labrador. 

Say,  shall  they  feel  the  vessel  reel, 

When  to  the  battery's  deadly  peal 

The  crashing  broadside  makes  reply  ; 

Or  else,  as  at  the  glorious  Nile, 

Hold  grappling  ships,  that  strive  the  while 

For  death  or  victory  ? 

Hurrah ! — cling,  clang  ! — once  more,  what  glows, 
Dark  brothers  of  the  forge,  beneath 
The  iron  tempest  of  your  blows, 
The  furnace's  red  breath  ? 

Clang,  clang  !  —  a  burning  torrent,  clear 
And  brilliant  of  bright  sparks,  is  poured 
Around,  and  up  in  the  dusky  air, 
As  our  hammers  forge  the  sword. 

The  sword  !  —  a  name  of  dread  ;  yet  when 
Upon  the  freeman's  thigh  't  is  bound,  — 
While  for  his  altar  and  his  hearth, 
While  for  the 'land  that  gave  him  birth, 
The  war-drums  roll,  the  trumpets  sound,  — 
How  sacred  is  it  then  ! 

Whenever  for  the  truth  and  right 
It  flashes  in  the  van  of  fight,  — 
Whether  in  some  wild  mountain  pass, 
As  that  where  fell  Leonidas  ; 
Or  on  some  sterile  plain  and  stern, 
A  Marston,  or  a  Bannock  burn  ; 
Or  amidst  crags  and  bursting  rills, 
The  Switzer's  Alps,  gray  Tyrol's  bills  ; 
Or  as,  when  sunk  the  Armada's  pride, 
It  gleams  above  the  stormy  tide,  — 


i± 


tf 


Er 


424 


POEMS  OF  TEMPERANCE  AND  LABOR. 


-a 


Still,  still,  whene'er  the  battle  word 
Is  liberty,  when  men  do  stand 
For  justice  and  their  native  land,  — 
Then  Heaven  bless  the  sword  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged  ;  't  is  at  a 

white  heat  now  : 
The  billows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased  ;  though 

on  the  forge's  brow 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the 

sable  mound  ; 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths 

ranking  round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands 

only  bare  ; 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work 

the  windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle-chains,  the  black 

mound  heaves  below, 
And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at 

every  throe  ; 
It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright,  —  0  Vulcan, 

what  a  glow  ! 
'Tis  blinding   white,   'tis  blasting  bright,    the 

high  sun  shines  not  so  ! 
The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery 

fearful  show,  — 
The  roof- ribs   swarth,  the   candent  hearth,  the 

ruddy,  lurid  row 
Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  "band,  like  men 

before  the  foe  ; 
As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the 

sailing  monster  slow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil, — all  about  the  faces  fiery 

grow,   - 
"  Hurrah  !  "  they  shout,  "  leap  out,  leap  out"  : 

bang,  bang,  the  sledges  go  ; 
Hurrah  !  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high 

and  low  ; 
A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  sqirash- 

ing  blow  ; 
The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail ;  the  rattling 

cinders  strew 
The  ground  around  ;  at  every  bound  the  swelter- 
ing fountains  flow  ; 
And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd,  at  every 

stroke,  pant  "  Ho  !  " 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters;  leap  out  and 

lay  on  load  ! 
Let 's  forge  a  goodly  anchor,  a  bower,  thick  and 

broad  ; 


For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hangingon  every  blow,  I  bode, 
And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a  perilous 

road  ; 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee,  the  roll  of  ocean 

poured 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea,  the  mainmast 

by  the  board  ; 
The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats 

stove  at  the  chains, 
But  courage  still,  brave  mariners,  the  bower  still 

remains, 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns  save  when 

ye  pitch  sky-high, 
Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  "Fear 

nothing,  —  here  am  I  !  " 
Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand 

keep  time, 
Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any 

steeple's  chime  ! 
But  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing  ;  and  let 

the  burden  be, 
The  Anchor  is  the  Anvil  King,  and  royal  crafts- 
men we  ; 
Strike  in,  strike  in,    the  sparks   begin   to  dull 

their  rustling  red  ! 
Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work 

will  soon  be  sped  ; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery 

rich  array 
For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy 

couch  of  clay  ; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry 

craftsmen  here, 
For  the  Yeo-heave-o,  and  the  Heave-away,  and 

the  sighing  seaman's  cheer  ; 
When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go  far,  far 

from  love  and  home, 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the 

ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom,  he  darkens  down 

at  last. 
A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong  as  e'er  from  cat 

was  cast. 
A  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst 

life  like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath 

the  deep  green  sea  ! 
0  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold  such 

sights  as  thou  ? 
The  hoary  monsters'  palaces  !  methinks  what  joy 

't  were  now 
To  go  plump  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly 

of  the  whales, 
And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil  beneath 

their  scourging  tails  ! 

•  •  •  •  • 

SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


t& 


POEMS   OF   TEMPERANCE   AND   LABOR. 


■a 


425 


LABOR   SONG. 

FROM    "THE   BELL-FOUNDER." 

Ah  !  little   they  know  of  true  happiness,  they 

whom  satiety  fills, 
Who,  flung  on  the  rich  breast  of  luxury,  eat  of 

the  rankness  that  kills. 
Ah  !  little  they  know  of  the  blessedness  toil- 
purchased  slumber  enjoys 
Who,  stretched  on  the  hard  rack  of  indolence, 

taste  of  the  sleep  that  destroys  ; 
Nothing  to  hope  for,  or  labor  for  ;  nothing  to  sigh 

for,  or  gain  ; 
Nothing  to  light  in  its  vividness,  lightning-like, 

bosom  and  brain  ; 
Nothing  to  break  life's  monotony,  rippling  it  o'er 

with  its  breath  : 
Nothing   but  dulness  and  lethargy,    weariness, 

sorrow,  and  death  ! 

But  blessed  that  child  of  humanity,  happiest  man 

among  men, 
Who,  with  hammer  or  chisel  or  pencil,  with  rud- 
der or  ploughshare  or  pen, 
Laboreth  ever  and  ever  with  hope  through  the 

morning  of  life, 
Winning  home  and  its  darling  divinities, —  love- 

worshipped  children  and  wife. 
Round  swings  the  hammer  of  industry,  quickly 

the  sharp  chisel  rings, 
And  the  heart  of  the  toiler  has  throbbings  that  stir 

not  the  bosom  of  kings,  — 
He  the  true  ruler  and  conqueror,  he  the  true  king 

of  his  race, 
Who  nerveth  his  arm  for  life's  combat,  and  looks 

the  strong  world  in  the  face. 

Denis  Florence  Mac-Carthy. 


A  LANCASHIRE   DOXOLOGY. 

["  Some  cotton  has  lately  been  imported  into  Farrin£don,  where 
the  mills  have  been  closed  for  a  considerable  time.     The  people, 
who  were  previously  in  the  deepest  distress,  went  out  to  in 
cotton:    the  women  wept  over   the  bales  and   kissed   them,   and 
finally  sang  the  Doxology  over  them."  —Spectator  of  May  14,  1863.) 

"Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow," 
Praise  him  who  sendeth  joy  and  woe. 
TheLordwl  ,  the  Lord  who  gives, 

0  praise  him,  all  that  dies,  and  lives. 

]\<:  opens  and  he  shuts  his  hand, 
But  why  we  cannot  understand  : 
Pours  and  dries  up  his  mercies'  Hood, 

And  yet  is  still  All-perfect  Good. 


We  fathom  not  the  mighty  plan, 
The  mystery  of  God  and  man  ; 


We  women,  when  afflictions  come, 
We  only  suffer  and  are  dumb. 

And  when,  the  tempest  passing  by, 
He  gleams  out,  sunlike,  through  our  sky, 
We  look  up,  and  through  black  clouds  riven 
We  recognize  the  smile  of  Heaven. 

Ours  is  no  wisdom  of  the  wise, 
We  have  no  deep  philosophies  ; 
Childlike  we  take  both  kiss  and  rod, 
For  he  who  loveth  knoweth  God. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock. 


TO   LABOR   IS   TO   PRAY. 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us  ; 
Pause  nottoweep  the  wild  cares  that  comeo'erus  ; 
Hark  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 

Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  heaven  ! 
Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  flowing  ; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing  ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  rose  heart  keeps  glow- 
ing, 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 


the  robin  is  singing  ; 


"  Labor  is  worship  ! 

"  Labor  is  worship  !  "  the  wild  bee  is  ringing  ; 

Listen  !  that  eloquent  whisper,  upspringing, 

Speaks   to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's  great 
heart. 
From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower  ; 
From   the   rough  sod   blows  the  soft-breathing 

flower  ; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower  ; 

Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labor  is  life  !  't  is  the  still  water  faileth  ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  or  the  dark  rust  assaileth  ; 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labor  is  glory  !  —  the  flying  cloud  lightens  ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens, 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens, 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them 
in  tune  ! 

Labor  is  rest  —  from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us  ; 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us  ; 
Resl  from  Bin-promptings  thai  ever  entreat  us  ; 

Rest  from  world-sirens  thai  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work, — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy 

pillow  ; 
Work,-    thouahaltrideo'eri  omingbillow; 

Lie  not  down  'neath  Woe's  weeping  willow, 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will  1 


5- 


-ff 


a- 


42C 


rOEMS   OF   TEMPERANCE   AND   LABOR. 


■ft 


Labor  is  health  !     Lo,  the  husbandman  reaping, 
How    through   his    veins  goes   the   life-current 

leaping  ! 
How  his  strong  arm  in  its  stal worth  pride  sweep- 
ing, 

True  as  a  sunbeam  the  swift  sickle  guides. 
Labor  is  wealth,  —  in  the  sea  the  pearl  groweth  ; 
Rich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  cocoon  fioweth  ; 
From  the  fine  acorn  the  strong  forest  bloweth  ; 

Temple  and  statue  the  marble  block  hides. 

Droop  not !  though  shame,  sin,  and  anguish  are 

round  thee  ! 
Bravely  lling  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound 

thee  ! 

Look  to  the  pure  heaven  smiling  beyond  thee  ! 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness,  —  a  clod  ! 

Work  for  some  good,  be  it  ever  so  slowly  ! 

Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly  ! 

Labor  !  —  all  labor  is  noble  and  holy  ; 

Let  thy  great  deed  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God. 

Frances  S.  Osgood. 


THE   POOR  MAN'S   LABOR. 

My  mother  sighed,  the  stream  of  pain 

Flowed  fast  and  chilly  o'er  her  brow  ; 
My  father  prayed,  nor  prayed  in  vain  ; 

Sweet  Mercy,  cast  a  glance  below. 
"My  husband  dear,"  the  sufferer  cried, 

"  My  pains  are  o'er,  behold  your  son." 
"Thank  Heaven,  sweet  partner,"  he  replied  ; 

"  The  poor  boy's  labor's  then  begun." 

Alas  !  the  hapless  life  she  gave 

By  fate  was  doomed  to  cost  her  own  ; 
For  soon  she  found  an  early  grave, 

Nor,  stayed  her  partner  long  alone. 
They  left  their  orphan  here  below, 

A  stranger  wild  beneath  the  sun, 
This  lesson  sad  to  learn  from  woe,  — 

The  poor  man's  labor  's  never  done. 

No  parent's  hand,  with  pious  care, 

My  childhood's  devious  steps  to  guide  ; 

Or  bid  my  venturous  youth  beware 
The  griefs  that  smote  on  every  side. 


'T  was  still  a  round  of  changing  woe, 

Woe  never  ending,  still  begun, 
That  taught  my  bleeding  heart  to  know 

The  poor  man's  labor  's  never  done. 

Soon  dies  the  faltering  voice  of  fame  ; 

The  vow  of  love 's  too  warm  to  last ; 
And  friendship,  what  a  faithless  dream  ! 

And,  wealth,  how  soon  thy  glare  is  past ! 
But  sure  one  hope  remains  to  save,  — 

The  longest  course  must  soon  be  run, 
And  in  the  shelter  of  the  grave 

The  poor  man's  labor  must  be  done. 

JOHN  PHILPOT  CURRAN. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

Good  night  ! 
To  each  weary,  toil-worn  wight, 
Now  the  day  so  sweetly  closes, 
Every  aching  brow  reposes 
Peacefully  till  morning  light. 
Good  night ! 

Home  to  rest ! 
Close  the  eye  and  calm  the  breast ; 
Stillness  through  the  streets  is  stealing, 
And  the  watchman's  horn  is  pealing, 
And  the  night  calls  softly,  "  Haste  ! 
Home  to  rest !  " 

Sweetly  sleep  ! 
Eden's  breezes  round  ye  sweep. 
O'er  the  peace-forsaken  lover 
Let  the  darling  image  hover, 
As  he  lies  in  transport  deep. 
Sweetly  sleep  ! 

So,  good  night ! 
Slumber  on  till  morning  light ; 
Slumber  till  another  morrow 
Brings  its  stores  of  joy  and  sorrow  ; 
Fearless,  in  the  Father's  sight, 

Slumber  on.     Good  night. 

KoRNER.      Translation  of 
CHARLES  T.  BROOKS. 


& 


■5 


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~ 


—"Eh 


POEMS  OF "  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


BREATHES   THERE   THE  MAN  — 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ! 

If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well  ; 

For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 

High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 

Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  ran  claim, 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 

Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 

And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 

To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 

Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


MY  COUNTRY. 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside, 
Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener  light, 
\nd  milder  moons  imparadise  the  night; 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth, 
Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth  : 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
I       wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 
Views  no1  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  fair, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air. 
In  every  clime,  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 

lied  by  remembrance,  t  remblcs  to  that  pole  ; 
For  in  this  land  of  Heaven'-  peculiar  race, 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  gri     . 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 

ler,    sweeter   spot     lhall    all    llie    ],-\, 

Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  easts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend. 
Here  woman  reigns  ;  the  mother,  daughter,  wife, 
strew  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life  : 


In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 
An  angel-guard  of  love  and  graces  lie  ; 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet, 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 
"Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be 

found  ? " 
Art  thou  a  man  ?  —  a  patriot  ?  —  look  around  ; 
0,  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home  ! 

Man,  through  all  ages  of  revolving  time, 

Unchanging  man,  in  every  varying  clime, 

Deems  his  own  land  of  every  land  the  pride, 

Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside  ; 

His  home  the  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 

A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 

James  Montgomery. 


HOW  SLEEP  THE   BRAVE  — 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blessed  ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung  ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  ; 
There  Honor  conies,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ; 
And  freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  heimit  there  ! 

William  Collins. 


Till'.    BRAVE   AT    lloMK 


THE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 
With    mile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 

The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 


B~ 


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430 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 
And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 

Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 
As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory  ! 

II. 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword, 

Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder, 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle, 
Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

"Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle  !      " 

in. 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

"While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor  ! 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


THE   DEATH   OF   LEONIDAS. 

It  was  the  wild  midnight,  — a  storm  was  on  the 

sky; 
The  lightning  gave  its  light,  and  the  thunder 

echoed  by. 
The  torrent  swept  the  glen,  the  ocean  lashed  the 

shore  ; 
Then  rose  the  Spartan  men,  to  make  their  bed  in 

gore  ! 

Swift  from  the  deluged  ground  three  hundred  took 

the  shield  ; 
Then,  in  silence,  gathered  round  the  leader  of  the 

field  ! 
All  up  the  mountain's  side,  all  down  the  woody 

vale, 
All  by  the  rolling  tide  waved  the  Persian  banners 

pale. 

And  foremost  from  the  pass,  among  the  slumber- 
ing band, 

Sprang  King  Leonidas,  like  the  lightning's  living 
brand. 

Then  double  darkness  fell,  and  the  forest  ceased 
its  moan  ; 

But  there  came  a  clash  of  steel,  and  a  distant  dy- 
ing groan. 

Anon,  a  trumpet  blew,  and  a  fiery  sheet  burst  high, 
That  o'er  the  midnight  threw  a  blood-red  canopy. 


A  host  glared  on  the  hill ;  ahostglared  by  the  bay ; 
But  the  Greeks  rushed  onward  still,  like  leopards 
in  their  play. 

The  air  was  all  a  yell,  and  the  earth  was  all  a  flame, 
Where  the  Spartan's  bloody  steel  on  the  silken 

turbans  came  ; 
And  still  the  Greek  rushed  on  where  the  fiery 

torrent  rolled, 
Till  like  a  rising  sun  shone  Xerxes'  tent  of  gold. 

They  found  a  royal  feast,  his  midnight  banquet, 

there  ; 
And  the  treasures  of  the  East  lay  beneath  the 

Doric  spear. 
Then  sat  to  the  repast  the  bravest  of  the  brave  ! 
That  feast  must  be  their  last,  that  spot  must  be 

their  grave. 

Up  rose  the  glorious  rank,  to  Greece  one  cup 
poured  high, 

Then  hand  in  hand  they  drank,  "To  immortal- 
ityj  " 

Fear  on  King  Xerxes  fell,  when,  like  spirits  from 
the  tomb, 

With  shout  and  trumpet  knell,  he  saw  the  war- 
riors come. 

But  down  swept  all  his  power,  with  chariot  and 

with  charge  ; 
Down  poured  the  arrows'  shower,  till  sank  the 

Spartan  targe. 
Thus  fought  the  Greek  of  old  !  thus  will  he  fight 

again  ! 
Shall  not  the  selfsame  mould  bring  forth  the  self- 


same men  ? 


GEORGE   CROLY. 


PERICLES   AND   ASPASIA. 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land 

When  Athens  was  the  land  of  fame  ; 

This  Avas  the  light  that  led  the  band 
When  each  was  like  a  living  flame  ; 

The  centre  of  earth's  noblest  ring,  — 

Of  more  than  men  the  more  than  king. 

Yet  not  by  fetter,  nor  by  spear, 
His  sovereignty  was  held  or  won  : 

Feared  —  but  alone  as  freemen  fear, 
Loved  —  but  as  freemen  love  alone, 

He  waved  the  sceptre  o'er  his  kind 

By  nature's  first  great  title,  —  mind  ! 

Resistless  words  were  on  his  tongue,  — • 
Then  eloquence  first  flashed  below  ; 

Full  armed  to  life  the  portent  sprung,  - 
Minerva  from  the  thunderer's  brow  ! 


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POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


431 


a 


And  his  the  sole,  the  sacred  hand 
That  shook  her  aegis  o'er  the  land. 

And  throned  immortal  by  his  side, 
A  woman  sits  with  eye  sublime,  — 

Aspasia,  all  his  spirit's  bride  ; 

But,  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime, 

Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage,  — 

Their  crime  was  in  their  darkened  age 


He  perished,  but  his  wreath  was  won,  — 
He  perished  in  his  height  of  fame  ; 

Then  sunk  the  cloud  on  Athens'  sun, 
Yet  still  she  conquered  in  his  name. 

Filled  with  his  soul,  she  could  not  die  , 

Her  conquest  was  posterity  ! 

George  croly. 


HORATIUS   AT  THE   BRIDGE. 

Lars  Porsexa  of  Clusium, 

By  the  nine  gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  nine  gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting-day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home, 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome  ! 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
"\V1id  tdway  by  Lara  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand. 
Evening  and  morn  the  thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  mi  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore  ; 

Ami  with  one  voice  the  thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given  : 
"(h,  forth,  go  forth,  bars  Porsena, — 

( in  forth,  beloved  of  heaven  ! 
( lo,  and  return  in  glory 

To  I  lusium'a  royal  dome, 
And  hang  round  Nnrscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome  !" 


And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men  ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutriura 

Is  met  the  great  array  ; 
A  proud  man  was  Lais  Porsena 

Upon  the  try  sting- dayr. 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  skjr. 
The  fathers  of  the  city, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay,. 

I  wis,  in  all  the  senate 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  consul, 

Up  rose  the  fathers  all  , 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council,  standing 

Before  the  river-gate  ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Outspake  the  consul  roundly  : 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear  : 
"  To  arms  !   to  arms  !  sir  consul,  — 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

But  the  consul's  brow  was  sad, 
And  the  consul's  speech  was  loWj 

And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall, 
And  darkly  at  the  foe  : 

"  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 
Before  the  bridge  goes  down  ; 

And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 

What   hope  to  save  the  town  ?" 

Then  outspake  brave  Horatius, 

The  captain  of  the  gate  : 
"To  every  man  upon  this  earth 
1  >eath  cometh  soon  or  late. 


tf 


ft 


432 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


ft 


And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods  ? 

"And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  ilame,  — 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  sir  consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may  ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play,  — 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  '" 

Than  outspake  Spunus  Lartias,  — 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he  : 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  outspake  strong  Henninius,  — 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

The  three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose  ; 
And  forth  three  chief.;  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array  ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way, 

Aunus,  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  hill  of  vines  ; 
And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines  ; 
And  Pious,  long  to  Clusium 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 
Into  the  stream  beneath  ; 

Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 
And  clove  him  io  the  teeth  ; 


At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust, 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  three  ; 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea  ; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar,  — 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men, 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns  ; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  ; 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow  : 
"Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark  ; 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns,  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice-accursed  sail  !  " 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes  ; 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance, 

Halted  that  deep  array, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

But,  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur  : 

And  lo  !  the  ranks  divide  ; 
And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans, 

A  smile  serene  and  high  ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "The  she-wolf's  litter 

Stand  savagely  at  bay  ; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way?" 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 
With  both  hands  to  the  height, 

He  rushed  against  Horatius, 
And  smote  with  all  his  might. 


<&- 


~jz: 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


433 


ft 


With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh  ; 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh. 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  How. 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space, 
Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth  and  skull  and  helmet 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 
The  good  sword  stood  a  handbreadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  fhat  deadly  stroke, 
As  falls  on  Mount  Avernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak. 
Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread  ; 
End  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain, 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
"And  see,"  he  cried,  "the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  ! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?  " 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran, 
Mingled  with  wrath  and  shame  and  dread, 

Along  tint  glittering  van. 
There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race, 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  three; 
And  from  the  ghastly  entrance, 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,   —like  hoys  who,  unaware, 
Ranging  a  wood  to  start  a  hare, 
<  tome  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 

Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 

amidst  hones  and  blood. 

Was  none  who  would  lie  foremost 

To  lead  BUch  dire  attaek  ; 

But  those  behind  cried  "  Forward  !" 
And  tho  e  before  cried  "  Back  !  " 


And  backward  now,  and  forward, 

Wavers  the  deep  array  ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel, 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd  ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud  : 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city  ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead  ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread  ; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied  ; 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  !" 

Loud  cried  the  fathers  all,  — 
"Back,  Lartius!  back,  Herminius! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  !  " 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius,  — 

Herminius  darted  back  ; 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more  ; 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam,     , 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  ; 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Ro  le  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And  like  a  horse  unbroken, 
When  firsl   he  feels  the  rein, 

The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane, 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 


■-a3 


a- 


434 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND.  FREEDOM. 


*3 


Rejoicing  to  be  free  ; 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement  and  plank  and  pier, 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind,  — 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"Down  with  him  !  "  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face  ; 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porscna, 

"Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace  !  " 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see  ; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he  ; 
But  he.  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home  ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome  : 

"0  Tiber!  Father  Tiber  ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  !  " 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  go.od  sword  by  his  side, 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank, 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank  ; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain, 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing  ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows  ; 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  ease, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  Hood 

Sale  to  the  landing-place  ; 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  Father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 


"  Curse  on  him  !  "  quoth  false  Sextus,  — 

"  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town  !  " 
"Heaven  help  him  !"  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"And  bring  him  safe  to  shore  ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom  ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands  ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands  ; 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  river-gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high,  — 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see,  — 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee  ; 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home  ; 
And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north-winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow  ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within  ; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit  ; 


m- 


\p- 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


435 


^ 


"Wlien  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close  ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows  ; 

"When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume  ; 
"When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom  ; 
"With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

THOMAS  BAIUNGTON  MACAULAY. 


SEMPRONIUS'S   SPEECH  FOR  "WAR. 

My  voice  is  still  for  war. 
Gods  !  can  a  Roman  senate  long  debate 
Which  of  the  two  to  choose,  slavery  or  death  ? 
No  ;  let  us  rise  at  once,  gird  on  our  swords, 
And  at  the  head  of  our  remaining  troops 
Attack  the  foe,  break  through  the  thick  array 
Of  his  thronged  legions,  and  charge  home  upon 

him. 
Perhaps  some  arm,  more  lucky  than  the  rest, 
Mayreachhis  heart,  and  free  the  world  from  bond- 
age. 
Rise  !  Fathers,  rise  !  'tis  Rome  demands  yourhelp  : 
Rise,  and  revenge  her  slaughtered  citizens, 
( >r  share  their  fate  !  The  corpse  of  half  her  senate 
Manures  the  fields  of  Thessaly,  while  we 
Sit  here  deliberating,  in  cold  debates, 
If  we  should  sacrifice  our  lives  to  honor, 
Or  wear  them  out  in  servitude  and  chains. 
Rouse  up,  fur  shame  !  Our  brothers  of  Pharsalia 
Point  out   their  wounds,  and  cry  aloud,  —  "  To 

battle  ! " 
i ;  real  Pompey's  shade  complains  that  we  are  slow, 

And  Scipio's  ghost  walks  unrevenged  among  us. 

Joseph  addison. 


t- 


BOADICEA. 

When  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 
lit,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
<  lounsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

■  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  druid,  hoary  chief  ; 
Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage  and  full  of  grief. 

"  Princess  !  if  our  aged  eyes 
Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 


'T  is  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

"Rome  shall  perish  —  write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt  — 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorred, 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

"  Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states  ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground,  — 
Hark  !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates  ! 

"Other  Romans  shall  arise, 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name  ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

"  Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

' '  Regions  Cresar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway  ; 
"Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 

None  invincible  as  they." 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 

Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride, 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow  ; 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought,  and  died,  — ■ 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due  ; 
Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 

WILLIAM   COWPER. 


HERMANN   AND   THTJSNELDA. 

rHermann,  or,  *s  the  Roman  historians  call  liim,  Arminius,  was 
a  chieftain  of  the  Cheruscans,  a  tribe  in  Northern  Germany.  After 
serving  En  lUyria,  and  there  teaming  the  Roman  iris  of  warfare,  h* 
came  back  to  his  native  country,  and  fought  successfully  for  its 
independence.  He  defeated  beside  i  defile  near  Detmold,  in  West- 
phalia! the  Roman  legions  under  Varus,  with  .1  slaughter  so  mortify- 
ing that  the  Proconsul  is  said  to  have  killed  himself,  and  Augustus 
to  have  received  the  catastrophe  with  indecorous  expressions  of 
grief.] 

Ha!  there  comes  he,  with  sweat,  with  blood  of 

Romans, 
And  with  'lust  or  the  fight  all  stained  !  0,  never 

Saw  1  Hermann  bo  Idvely ! 

Never  such  fire  in  his  eves ! 


tf 


a- 


436 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


-a 


Come  !  I  tremble  for  joy  ;  hand  me  the  Eagle, 
And  the  red,  dripping  sword  !  come,  breathe,  and 
rest  thee  ; 

Rest  thee  here  in  my  bosom  ; 

Rest  from  the  terrible  fight  ! 

Rest  thee,  while  from  thy  brow  I  wipe  the  big 

drops, 
And  the  blood  from  thy  cheek  !  —  that  cheek, 
how  glowing  ! 
Hermann  !  Hermann  !  Thusnelda 
Never  so  loved  thee  before  ! 


No,  not  then  when  thou  first,  in  old  oak-shadows, 
With  that  manly  brown  arm  didst  wildly  grasp  me  ! 

Spell-bound  I  read  in  thy  look 

That  immortality,  then, 

"Which  thou  now  hast  won.  Tell  to  the  forests, 
Great  Augustus,  with  trembling,  amidst  his  gods 
now, 

Drinks  his  nectar ;  for  Hermann, 

Hermann  immortal  is  found  ! 

""Wherefore  curl'st  thou  my  hair  ?  Lies  not  our 
father 

Cold  and  silent  in  death  ?     0,  had  Augustus 
Only  headed  his  army,  — 
He  should  lie  bloodier  there  !  " 

Let  me  lift  up  thy  hair  ;  'tis  sinking,  Hermann  ; 
Proudly  thy  locks  should  curl  above  the  crown 
now  ! 

Sigmar  is  with  the  immortals  ! 

Follow,  and  mourn  him  no  more  ! 

KLOPSTOCK.     Translation  of 
CHARLES  T.   BROOKS. 


RIENZI   TO   THE   ROMANS. 

Friends  ! 

I  came  not  here  to  talk.     Ye  know  too  well 
The  story  of  our  thraldom.     We  are  slaves  ! 
The  bright  sun  rises  to  his  course,  and  lights 
A  race  of  slaves  !  he  sets,  and  his  last  beam 
Falls  on  a  slave  !     Not  such  as,  swept  along 
By  the  full  tide  of  power,  the  conqueror  leads 
To  crimson  glory  and  undying  fame, 
But  base,  ignoble  slaves  !  —  slaves  to  a  horde 
Of  petty  tyrants,  feudal  despots  ;  lords 
Rich  in  some  dozen  paltry  villages, 
Strong  in  some  hundred  spearmen,  only  great 
In  that  strange  spell,  —  a  name  !   Each  hour,  dark 

fraud, 
Or  open  rapine,  or  protected  murder, 
Cries  oul  against  them.     But  this  very  day 
An  honest  man,  my  neighbor,  —  there  he  stands,  — 


Was  struck  —  struck  like  a  dog  — ■  by  one  who  wore 
The  badge  of  Ursini  !  because,  forsooth, 
He  tossed  not  high  his  ready  cap  in  air, 
Nor  lifted  up  his  voice  in  servile  shouts, 
At  sight  of  that  great  ruffian  !     Be  we  men, 
And  suffer  such  dishonor  ?  men,  and  wash  not 
The  stain  away  in  blood?  such  shames  are  common. 
I  have  known  deeper  wrongs.     I  that  speak  to 

ye— 

I  had  a  brother  once,  a  gracious  boy, 
Full  of  all  gentleness,  of  calmest  hope, 
Of  sweet  and  quiet  joy  ;  there  was  the  look 
Of  Heaven  upon  his  face  which  limners  give 
To  the  beloved  disciple.     How  I  loved 
That  gracious  boy  !  younger  by  fifteen  years, 
Brother  at  once  and  son  !     He  left  my  side,  — 
A  summer  bloom  on  his  fair  cheeks,  a  smile 
Parting  his  innocent  lips.     In  one  short  hour 
The  pretty,  harmless  boy  was  slain  !    I  saw 
The  corse,  the  mangled  corse,  and  then  I  cried 
For   vengeance !     Rouse,    ye    Romans  !    liouse, 

ye  slaves  ! 
Have  ye  brave  sons  ?  • 

brawl 
To  see  them  die  !  Have  ye  fair  daughters  ?  —  Look 
To  see  them  live,  torn  from  your  arms,  disdained, 
Dishonored  ;  and,  if  ye  dare  call  for  justice, 
Be  answered  by  the  lash  !     Yet  this  is  Rome, 
That  sate  on  her  seven  hills,  and  from  her  throne 
Of  beauty  ruled  the  world  !    Yet  we  are  Romans. 
Why,  in  that  elder  day  to  be  a  Roman 
Was  greater  than  a  king  !  And  once  again  — 
Hear  me,  ye  walls,  that  echoed  to  the  tread 
Of  either  Brutus  ! 
The  eternal  city  shall  be  free  ! 


Look  in  the  next  fierce 


once  again  I  swear 


Mary  Russell  Mitford. 


MAKE  WAY   FOR   LIBERTY! 

fOn  the  exploit  of  Arnold  Winkelried  at  the  battle  of  Sempach.  in 
which  the  Swiss,  fighting  for  their  independence,  totally  defeated 
the  Austrians,  in  the  fourteenth  century.] 

' '  Make  way  for  Liberty  !  "  ■ —  he  cried  ; 
Made  way  for  Liberty,  and  died  ! 

In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  ! 
A  wall,  where  every  conscious  stone 
Seemed  to  its  kindred  thousands  grown  ; 
A  rampart  all  assaults  to  bear, 
Till  time  to  dust  their  frames  should  wear  ; 
A  wood,  like  that  enchanted  grove 
In  which  with  fiends  Rinaldo  strove, 
Where  every  silent  tree  possessed 
A  spirit  prisoned  in  its  breast, 
Which  the  first  stroke  of  coming  strife 
Would  startle  into  hideous  life  ; 


Pr 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


-a 


437 


4. 


So  dense,  so  still,  the  Austrians  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  ! 
Impregnable  their  front  appears, 
All  horrent  with  projected  spears, 
Whose  polished  points  before  them  shine, 
From  flank  to  flank,  one  brilliant  line, 
Bright  as  the  breakers'  splendors  run 
Along  the  billows  to  the  sun. 

Opposed  to  these,  a  hovering  band 
Contended  for  their  native  land  : 
Peasants,  whose  new-found  strength  had  broke 
From  manly  necks  the  ignoble  yoke, 
And  forged  their  fetters  into  swords, 
<  >n  equal  terms  to  fight  their  lords, 
And  what  insurgent  rage  had  gained 
In  many  a  mortal  fray  maintained  ; 
Marshalled  once  more  at  Freedom's  call, 
They  came  to  conquer  or  to  fall, 
Where  he  who  conquered,  he  who  fell, 
Was  deemed  a  dead,  or  living  Tell  ! 
Such  virtue  had  that  patriot  breathed, 
So  to  the  soil  his  soul  bequeathed, 
That  wheresoe'er  his  arrows  flew 
Heroes  in  his  own  likeness  grew, 
And  warriors  sprang  from  every  sod 
Which  his  awakening  footstep  trod. 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death 
Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath  ; 
Tin-  fire  of  conflict  burnt  within, 
The  battle  trembled  to  begin  ; 
Yet,  while  the  Austrians  held  their  ground, 
Point  for  attack  was  nowhere  found, 
Where'er  tin-  impatient  Switzers  gazed, 
The  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed  ; 
Tli.it  line  't  were  suicide  to  meet, 
And  perish  at  their  tyrants'  feet,  — 
How  could  they  rest  within  their  graves, 
And  leave  their  homes  the  homes  (if  slaves  ? 
Would  they  not  feel  their  children  tread 
With  clanging  chains  above  their  head? 

It  must  not  be  :  this  day,  this  hour, 
Annihilates  the  oppressor's  power  ; 
All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field, 
She  will  not  fly,  she  rannot  yield,  — 
She  must  not  fall  ;  her  better  late 
Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 

Few  were  (lie  number  she  COllld   boast    ; 

Put  every  freeman  was  a  host, 

And   felt    as  though    hilllself  Were  he 

On  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 

It  di'l  depend  on  one  indeed  ; 
Behold  him,  —  Arnold  Winkelried  ! 
There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  fame 
The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 


Unmarked  he  stood  amid  the  throng, 

In  rumination  deep  and  long, 

Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace, 

The  very  thought  come  o'er  his  face, 

And  by  the  motion  of  his  form 

Anticipate  the  bursting  storm, 

And  by  the  uplifting  of  his  brow 

Tell  where  the  bolt  would  strike,  and  how. 

But  't  was  no  sooner  thought  than  done, 
The  field  was  in  a  moment  won  :  — 

"Make  way  for  Liberty  ! "  he  cried, 
Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wide, 
As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp  ; 
Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp. 

"  Make  way  for  Liberty  ! "  he  cried  ; 
Their  keen  points  met  from  side  to  side  ; 
He  bowed  amongst  them  like  a  tree, 
And  thus  made  way  for  Liberty. 

Swift  to  the  breach  his  comrades  fly  ; 
"  Make  way  for  Liberty  !  "  they  cry, 
And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart, 
As  rushed  the  spears  through  Arnold's  heart 
While,  instantaneous  as  his  fall, 
Rout,  ruin,  panic,  scattered  all  : 
An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 
A  city  with  a  surer  blow- 
Thus  Switzerland  again  was  free  ; 
Thus  death  made  way  for  Liberty  ! 

James  Montgomery. 


SWITZERLAND. 


WILLIAM    TELL. 


Once  Switzerland  was  free  !    With  what  a  pride 
I  used  to  walk  these  hills,  —  look  up  to  heaven, 
And  bless  God  that  it  was  so  !     It  was  free 
From  end  to  end,  from  cliff  to  lake  'twas  free  ! 
Free  as  our  torrents  are,  that  leap  our  rocks, 
And  plough  our  valleys,  without  asking  leave  ; 
Or  as  our  peaks,  that  wear  their  caps  of  snow 
In  very  presence  of  the  regal  sun  ! 
How  happy  was  I  in  it,  then  !  1  loved 
Its  very  storms.      Ay,  often  have  1  sat 
In  my  boat  at  night,  when  midway  o'er  the  lake, 
The  stars  went    out,    and    down    the    mountain 

gorge 
The  wind  came  roaring,  —  I  have  sat  and  eyed 
The  thunder  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smiled 
To  see  him  shake  his  lightnings  o'er  my  head, 
And  think  I  had  no  master  save  his  own. 

Jambs  Sheridan  Knowles. 


W 


43S 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


~ti 


MOXCONTOUR. 

0,  weep  for  Mcmcontour  !    0,  weep  for  the  hour 
When   the   children  of  darkness  and   evil  had 

power  ; 
"When  the  horsemen  of  Valois  triumphantly  trod 
On  the  bosoms  that  hied  for  their  rights  and 

their  God. 

O,  weep  for  Moncontonr  !    0,  weep  for  the  slain 
"Who  for  faith  and  for  freedom  lay  slaughtered  in 

vain  ! 
0,  weep  for  the  living,  who  linger  to  hear 
The  renegade's  shame  or  the  exile's  despair  ! 

One   look,  one   last  look,  to  the  cots  and   the 

towers, 
To  the  rows  of  our  vines  and  the  beds  of  our 

flowers  ; 
To  the  chinch  where  the  bones  of  our  fathers 

decayed, 
"Where  we  fondly  had  deemed  that  our  own  should 

be  laid. 

Alas  !  we  must  leave  thee,  dear  desolate  home, 
To  the  spearmen  of  Uri,  the  shavelings  of  Rome  ; 
To  the  serpent  of  Florence,  the  sultan  of  Spain  ; 
To  the  pride  of  Anjou,  and  the  guile  of  Lorraine. 

Farewell  to  thy  fountains,  farewell  to  thy  shades, 
To  the  song  of  thy  youths,  the  dance  of  thy 

maids  ; 
To  the  breath  of  thy  gardens,  the  hum  of  thy 

bees, 
And  the  long  waving  line  of  the  blue  Pyrenees  ! 

« 
Farewell  and  forever  !     The  priest  and  the  slave 

May  rule  in  the  halls  of  the  free  and  the  brave  ; 

Our  hearths  we  abandon,  —  ourlands  we  resign,  — 

But,  Father,  we  kneel  to  no  altar  but  thine. 

THOMAS  BAB1NGTON  MACAULAY. 


NASEBY. 

0,  "wherefoue  come  ye  forth  in  triumph  from 
the  north, 

With  your  hands,  and  your  feet,  and  your  rai- 
ment all  red  ? 

And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a  joy- 
ous shout  ? 

And  whence  be  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press  that 
ye  tread  ? 

0,  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the  fruit, 
And  crimson  was  tin;  juice  of  the  vintage  that 
we  trod  ; 


For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the  haughty 

and  the  strong, 
Who  sate  in  the  high  places  and  slew  the  saints 

of  God. 

It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of  June 
That   we   saw   their  banners   dance   and   their 

cuirasses  shine, 
And  the  man  of  blood  was  there,  with  his  Ions 

essenced  hair, 
And  Astley,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Rupert  of 

the  Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  and 

his  sword, 
The  General  rode  alongus  to  form  us  for  the  fight ; 
When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and  swelled 

into  a  shout 
Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the  tyrant's 

right. 

And  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on  the 

shore, 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging  line  : 
For  God  !  for  the  cause  !  for  the  Church  !  for  the 

laws  ! 
For  Charles,  king  of  England,  and  Rupert  of  the 

Rhine  ! 

The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clarions  and 

his  drums, 
His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of  Whitehall ; 
They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks  !     Grasp  your 

pikes  !     Close  your  ranks  ! 
For  Rupert  never  comes  but  to  conquer,  or  to 

fall. 

They  are  here,  —  they  rash  on,  —  we  are  broken, 

—  we  are  gone,  — 
Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on  the 

blast. 
0  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might !     0  Lord,  defend 

the  right ! 
Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name  !  and  fight 

it  to  the  last ! 

Stout  Skippen  hath  a  wound,  —  the  centre  hath 

given  ground. 
Hark  !    hark  !    what   means  the   trampling   of 

horsemen  on  our  rear  ? 
Whose  banner  do  I  see,  boys  ?     'T  is  he  !  thank 

God  !  't  is  he,  boys  ! 
Bear  up  another  minute  !     Brave  Oliver  is  here  ! 

Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points  all  in 

a  low, 
Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge  on 

the  dikes, 


tfr* 


9 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


439 


a 


Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of  the 

accurst, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scattered  the  forest  of  his 

pikes. 

Fast,  fast  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook 
to  hide 

Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot  on  Tem- 
ple Bar  ; 

And  he  —  he  turns  !  he  flies  !  shame  on  those 
cruel  eyes 

That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not  look 
on  war  ! 

Ho,  comrades  !  scour  the  plain  ;  and  ere  ye  strip 
the  slain, 

First  give  another  stab  to  make  your  search 
secure  ; 

Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their  broad- 
pieces  and  lockets, 

The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the 
poor. 

Fools  !  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and  your 

hearts  were  gay  and  bold, 
When  you  kissed   your  lily  hands  to  your  le- 

mans  to-day  ; 
And  to-morrow  shall  the  fox  from  her  chambers 

in  the  rocks 
Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above  the 

prey. 

"Where  be  your  tongues,  that  late  mocked  at 
heaven  and  hell  and  fate  ? 

And  the  lingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with  your 
blades  .' 

Your  perfumed  satin  clothes,  your  catches  and 
your  oaths  ? 

Your  stage-plays  and  your  sonnets,  your  dia- 
monds and  your  spades  ? 

Down  !  down  !  forever  down,  with  the  mitre  and 

the  crown  ! 
With  the  P.elial  of  the  court,  and  the  Mammon 

of  tin;  Pope  ! 
There    is  woe  in  Oxford  halls,  there  is  wail  in 

Durham's  .stalls  ; 
The  Jesuit    smites  his  bosom,  the  bishop  rends 

his  cope. 

And  she  of  the  seven  hills  shall  mourn  her  chil- 
dren's ills, 

And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge  of 
England's  sword  ; 

And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder 
when  tiny  hear 

What  the  hand  of  God   hath  wrought  for  the 

houses  and  the  word  ! 

Thomas  Babincton  Macaulay. 


BRUCE   AND   THE   SPIDER. 

For  Scotland's  and  for  freedom's  right 

The  Bruce  his  part  had  played, 
In  five  successive  fields  of  tight 

Been  conquered  and  dismayed  ; 
Once  more  against  the  English  host 
His  band  he  led,  and  once  more  lost 

The  meed  for  which  he  fought ; 
And  now  from  battle,  faint  and  worn, 
The  homeless  fugitive  forlorn 

A  hut's  lone  shelter  sought. 

And  cheerless  was  that  resting-place 

For  him  who  claimed  a  throne  : 
His  canopy,  devoid  of  grace, 

The  rude,  rough  beams  alone  ; 
The  heather  couch  his  only  bed,  — 
Yet  well  I  ween  had  slumber  fled 

From  couch  of  eider-down  ! 
Through  darksome  night  till  dawn  of  day, 
Absorbed  in  wakeful  thought  he  lay 

Of  Scotland  and  her  crown. 

The  sun  rose  brightly,  and  its  gleam 

Fell  on  that  hapless  bed, 
And  tinged  with  light  each  shapeless  beam 

"Which  roofed  the  lowly  shed  ; 
When,  looking  up  with  wistful  eye, 
The  Bruce  beheld  a  spider  try 

His  filmy  thread  to  fling 
From  beam  to  beam  of  that  rude  cot ; 
And  well  the  insect's  toilsome  lot 

Taught  Scotland's  future  king. 

Six  times  his  gossamery  thread 

The  wary  spider  threw  ; 
In  vain  the  filmy  line  was  sped, 

For  powerless  or  untrue 
Each  aim  appeared,  and  back  recoiled 
The  patient  insect,  six  times  foiled, 

And  yet  unconquered  still  ; 
And  soon  the  Bruce,  with  eager  eye, 
Saw  him  prepare  once  more  to  try 

His  courage,  strength,  and  skill. 

One  effort  more,  his  seventh  and  last ! 

The  hero  hailed  the  sign  ! 
And  on  the  wished-for  beam  hung  fast 

That  slender,  silken  line  ; 
Slight  as  it  was,  his  spirit  caught 
The  more  than  omen,  for  his  thought 

The  Lesson  well  could  trace, 

Which  even  "he  who  runs  may  read/' 

That  Perseverance  gains  its  meed, 

And  Patience  wins  the  race. 

Bernard     arton. 


[5- 


& 


rfl- 


440 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   ANb   FREEDOM. 


■a 


BANNOCKBURN. 

At  Bannockbnm  the  English  lay,  — 
The  Scots  they  were  na  far  away, 
But  waited  for  the  break  o'  day 
That  glinted  in  the  east. 

But  soon  the  sun  broke  through  the  heath 
And  lighted  up  that  field  o'  death, 
When  Bruce,  wi'  saul-inspiring  breath, 
His  heralds  thus  addressed  :  — 

"  Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  "Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  often  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  glorious  victory  ! 

"  Xow  's  the  day,  and  now  's  the  hour  ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour  ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power,  — 
Edward  !  chains  and  slavery  ! 

"  Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  lill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor  !  coward  !  turn  and  flee  ! 

"  Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Caledonia  !  on  wi'  me  ! 

"  By  oppression's  woes  and  pains ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  —  shall  be  free  ! 

"  Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty  's  in  every  blow  ! 

Forward  !  let  us  do,  or  die  ! " 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING. 

WIZARD.  — LOCHIEL. 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel,  Lochiel  !  beware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shallmeettheein  battlearray, 
Fur  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in  fight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and 

crown, 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down  ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  liosDi  ns  are  trod  to  the  plain. 


But  hark  !  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of 

war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
'T  is  thine,  0  Glenullin  !  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  :  no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin  !  to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
0,  weep  !  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead  ; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave, 
Culloden  !  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer  ! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

WIZARD. 

Ha  !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be 

torn  ! 
Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of  the 

north  ! 
Lo !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high  ! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed,  —  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?  Why  shoot  to  the 

blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast  ? 
'T  is  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyry,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of 

heaven. 
0  crested  Lochiel  !  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn  ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it 

stood, 
And  a  wildmother  scream  o'erherfamishingbrood. 

lochiel. 

False  Wizard,  avaunt !  I  have  marshalled  my  clan, 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their 

breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock  ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the 

rock  ! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ; 
Winn  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array  — 


C& 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


441 


WIZARD. 

• —  Lochiel,  Lochiel  !  beware  of  the  day  ; 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 
'T  is  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive 

king. 
Lo  !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  phials  of  wrath, 
Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 
Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my 

sight. 
Rise,  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight  ! 
"f  is  finished.    Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the 

moors. 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores, 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?  Where  ? 
For  tin;  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and 

torn  ? 
Ah  no  !  for  a  dai'ker  departure  is  near  ; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier  ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling  :  0  mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 
Lite  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 
Aci  ursed  lie  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it  ceases  to 

beat, 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale  — 

LOCHIEL. 

—  Down,  soothless  insulter  !  I  trust  not  the  tale  ; 
For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet, 
So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in 

their  gore, 
Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  thi'  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe  ! 
Ami  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  tin'  death-bed  of 

lal"'  '  Thomas  Campbell. 


SCOTLAND. 

1 1  i "  \m  don]  \  '  stem  and  wild, 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 
Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 
Land  of  the  mountain  and  t  lie  Rood, 
Land  of  my  sires  :  what  mortal  hand 
Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band 


That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand  ? 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene, 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been, 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left ; 

And  thus  I  love  them  better  still, 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 

By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  me  stray, 

Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way  ; 

Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break, 

Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek  ; 

Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  stone, 

Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 

The  bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


MACGREGOR'S   GATHERING. 


Air, 


'  THAIN     A    GRIGALACH. 


[These  verses  are  adapted  to  a  very  wild,  yet  lively,  feathering 
tune,  used  by  the  Macgregors.  The  severe  treatment  of  this  clan, 
their  outlawry,  and  the  proscription  of  their  very  name,  are  alluded 
to  in  the  ballad.J 

The  moon 's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist 's  on  the 

brae, 
And  the  clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless  by  day  ; 

Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach  ! 

Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 

Our  signal  for  fight,  that  from  monarchs  we  drew, 
Must  be  heard  but  by  night  in  our  vengeful  haloo ! 

Then  haloo,  Grigalach  !  haloo,  Grigalach  ! 

Haloo,  haloo,  haloo,  Grigalach,  etc. 

Glen  Orchy's  proud  mountains,  Coalchurn  and 

her  towers, 
Glenstrae  and  Glenlyon  no  longer  are  ours  : 

We're  landless,  landless,  landless,  Grigalach  ! 

Landless,  landless,  landless,  etc. 

But  doomed  and  devoted  by  vassal  and  lord 
Macgregor  has  still  both  his  heart  and  his  sword  ! 

Then  courage,  courage,  courage,  Grigalach  ! 

Courage,  courage,  courage,  etc. 

If  theyrobus  of  name,  and  pursue  us  with  beagles, 
Give  their  roofs  to  the  flame,  and  their  flesh  to 
the  eagles  ! 
Then     vengeance,     vengeance,    vengeance, 

( rrigalach  ! 
Vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  etc. 

While  there  \s  leaves  iii  the  forest,  and  foam  on 

the  river, 
Macgregor,  despite  them,  shall  flourish  forever  ! 
Come  then,  Grigalach!  come  then,  Griga- 
lach ! 
Come  then,  come  then,  come  then,  etc. 


[B~ 


~ff 


•442 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


a 


Through  the  depths  of  Loch  Katrine  the  steed 

shall  career, 

O'er  the  peak  of  Ben  Lomond  the  galley  shall  steer, 

And  the  rocks  of  Craig- Royston  like  icicles  melt, 

Ere  our  wrongs  be  forgot  or  our  vengeance  unfelt  ! 

Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach  ! 

Gather,  gather,  gather,  etc. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


ENGLAND. 

I  travelled  among  unknown  men 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea  ; 
Nor,  England  !  did  I  know  till  then 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

'T  is  past,  that  melancholy  dream  ! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time,  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire  ; 
And  she  I  cherished  turned  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed, 
The  bowers  where  Lucy  plajred  ; 

And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy's  e}'es  surveyed. 

William  Wordsworth. 


MY   COUNTRY. 


FROM    "THE   TIMEPIECE." 


England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still,  — 
My  country  !  and,  while  yet  a  nook  is  left 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrained  to  love  thee.     Though  thy 

clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year  most  part  deformed 
With  dripping  rains,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies, 
And  fields  without  a  flower,  for  warmer  France 
Witli  all  her  vines  ;  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
<  )f  golden  fruitage  and  her  myrtle  bowers. 
To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  height  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  Hash  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task  : 
But  I  can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  sorrows  with  as  true  a  heart 
As  any  thunderer  there.     And  I  can  feel 
Thy  follies  too  ;  and  with  a  just  disdain 
Frown  at  effeminates  whose  very  looks 
Reflect  dishonor  on  the  land  I  love. 


How,  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense, 
Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as 

smooth 
And  tender  as  a  girl,  all  essenced  o'er 
With  odors,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet, 
Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath, 
And  love  when  they  should  fight,  —  when  such  as 

these 
Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark 
Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause  ? 
Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 
In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 
That  we  were  born  her  children.     Praise  enough 
To  fill  the  ambition  of  a  private  man, 
That  Chatham's  language  was  his  mother  tongue, 
And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 

William  Cowper. 


RULE   BRITANNIA! 

Whex  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sing  the  strain  : 

Rule  Britannia !  Britannia  rules  the  waves ! 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee, 
Must,  in  their  turn,  to  tyrants  fall ; 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish,  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Rule  Britannia  !  etc. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  ; 

As  the  loud  blasts  that  tear  thy  skies 
Serve  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule  Britannia  !  etc. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame  ; 

All  their  attempts  to  hurl  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

And  work  their  woe  —  but  thy  renown. 
Rule  Britannia  !  etc. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign  ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine  ; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  encircle  thine. 
Rule  Britannia!  etc. 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair  ; 
Blest  Isle  !  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
Rule  Britannia  !  etc. 

James  Thomson. 


& 


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POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


■ft 


443 


THE   ENGLISHMAN. 


There's  a  land  that  bears  a  world-known  name, 

Though  it  is  but  a  little  spot ; 
I  say  't  is  first  on  the  scroll  of  fame, 

And  who  shall  aver  it  is  not  ? 
Of  the  deathless  ones  who  shine  and  live 

In  arms,  in  arts,  or  song, 
The  brightest  the  whole  wide  world  can  give 

To  that  little  land  belong. 
'T  is  the  star  of  earth,  deny  it  who  can, 
The  island  home  of  an  Englishman. 

There  's  a  flag  that  waves  o'er  every  sea, 

No  matter  when  or  where  ; 
And  to  treat  that  flag  as  aught  but  the  free 

Is  more  than  the  strongest  dare. 
For  the  lion  spirits  that  tread  the  deck 

Have  carried  the  palm  of  the  brave  ; 
And  that  flag  may  sink  with  a  shot-torn  wreck, 

But  never  float  over  a  slave. 
Its  honor  is  stainless,  deny  it  who  can, 
And  this  is  the  flag  of  an  Englishman. 

There  's  a  heart  that  leaps  with  burning  glow 

The  wronged  and  the  weak  to  defend  ; 
And  strikes  as  soon  for  a  trampled  foe 

As  it  does  for  a  soul-bound  friend. 
It  nurtures  a  dee])  and  honest  love, 

The  passions  of  faith  and  pride, 
And  yearns  with  the  fondness  of  a  dove 

For  the  light  of  its  own  fireside. 
'T  is  a  rich  rough  gem,  deny  it  who  can, 
And  this  is  the  heart  of  an  Englishman. 

The  Briton  may  traverse  the  pole  or  the  zone, 

And  boldly  claim  his  right ; 
V  ir  he  calls  such  a  vast  domain  his  own 

That  the  sun  never  sets  on  his  might. 
Lei  the  haughty  stranger  seek  to  know 

The  place  of  his  home  and  birth, 
And  a  Hush  will  pour  from  cheek  to  brow 

While  he  tells  his  native  earth. 

For  a  glorious  charter,  deny  it  who  can, 

Is  breathed  in  the  words  "  I  'm  an  Englishman." 

Eliza  c<  k  ik. 


Julius  Cresar,    the   Roman,  who  yielded  to  no 
man, 
Came  by  water,  — he  couldn't  come  by  land  ; 
And  Dane,  Pict,  and  Saxon,  their  homes  turned 
their  backs  on, 
And  all  for  the  sake  of  our  island. 
0,  what  a  snug  little  island  ! 
They  'd  all  have  a  touch  at  the  island  ! 
Some  were  shot  dead,  some  of  them  fled, 
And  some  stayed  to  live  on  the  island. 


THE  SNUG    LITTLE   ISLAND. 

I".  :>:>Y  NEPTTJXE,  one  day,  to  Freedom  did  say, 
If  ever  I  lived  upon  ill  y  land, 

Thespol  I  should  hit  on  would  be  little  Britain  ' 
Says  Freedom,  "Why,  that's  my  own  island!" 
( ),  it  's  a  snug  little  island  ' 
A  righl  little,  tighl  Little  island  I 
Search  the  globe  round,  none  can  be  found 
So  happy  as  this  little  island. 


Then  a  very  great  war-man,  called  Billy  the  Nor- 
man, 
Cried,  "Drat  it,  I  never  liked  my  land. 
It  would  be  much  more   handy    to  leave  this 
Normandy, 
And  live  on  your  beautiful  island." 

Says  he,  "  'T  is  a  snug  little  island  ; 
Sha'  n't  us  go  visit  the  island  ?  " 
Hop,  skip,  and  jump,  there  he  was  plump, 
And  he  kicked  up  a  dust  in  the  island. 

But  party  deceit  helped  the  Normans  to  beat  ; 

Of  traitors  they  managed  to  buy  land  ; 
By  Dane,  Saxon,  or  Pict,  Britons  ne'er  had  been 
licked, 
Had  they  stuck  to  the  king  of  their  island. 
Poor  Harold,  the  king  of  our  island  ! 
He  lost  both  his  life  and  his  island. 
That 's  all  very  true:  what  more  could  ho 
do? 
Like  a  Briton  he  died  for  his  island  ! 

The  Spanish  armada  set  out  to  invade  —  a, 
'T  will  sure,  if  they  ever  come  nigh  land. 
They  could  n't  do  less  than  tuck  up  Queen  Bess, 
And  take  their  full  swing  on  the  island. 
0  the  poor  queen  of  the  island  ! 
The  Dons  came  to  plunder  the  island  ; 
But  snug  in  her  hive  the  queen  was  alive, 
And  "buzz  "  was  the  word  of  the  island. 

These  proud  puffed-up  cakes  thought  to  make 
ducks  and  drakes 
Of  our  wealth  ;  but  they  hardly  could  spy  land. 
When    our   Drake  had  the  luck    to  make  their 
pride  duck 
And  stoop  to  the  lads  of  the  island  ! 
The  good  wooden  Walls  of  the  island  ; 
Devil  or  Don,  let  them  come  on  ; 

And  see  how  they  'd  come  oil' the  island  ! 

Since  Freedom  and  Neptune  have  hitherto  kept 
time, 
In  each  saying,   "This  shall  he  my  land"  ; 
Should  the   "  Army  of  England,"  or  all  it  could 
bring,  land, 
We  'd  show  'em  some  play  for  the  island. 


[B- 


— ff 


444 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


"ft 


We  'd  fight  for  our  right  to  the  island  ; 
We  'd  give  them  enough  of  the  island  ; 
Invaders  should  just  —  bite  once  at  the  dust, 
But  not  a  hit  more  of  the  island. 

Thomas  Dibdin. 


THE   LAND,    BOYS,    WE   LIVE   IN. 

FROM    "  THE    MYRTLE   AND    THE   VINE." 

Sixce  our  foes  to  invade  us  have  long  been  pre- 
paring, 
'T  is  clear  they  consider  we  've  something  worth 
sharing, 
And  for  that  mean  to  visit  our  shore  ; 
It  behooves  us,  however,  with  spirit  to  meet  'em, 
And  though  't  will  be   nothing  uncommon  to 
beat  'em, 
We  must  try  how  they  '11  take  it  once  more  : 
So  fill,  fill  yourglasses,  be  this  the  toast  given,  — 
Here  's  England  forever,  the  land,  boys,  we  live 

in! 
So  fill,  fill  yourglasses,  bethisthetoastgiven,  — 
Here  's  England  forever,  huzza  ! 

Here  's  a  health  to  our  tars  on  the  wide  ocean 

ranging, 
Perhaps  even  now  some  broadsides  are  exchang- 
ing* 
We  '11  on  shipboard  and  join  in  the  fight ; 
And  when  with  the  foe  we  are  firmly  engaging, 
Till  the  fire  of  our  guns  lulls  the  sea  in  its  raging, 
On  our  country  we  '11  think  with  delight. 
So  fill,  fill  your  glasses,  etc. 

On  that  throne  where  once  Alfred  in  glory  was 

seated, 
Long,  long  may  our  king  by  his  people  he  greeted ; 

0,  to  guard  him  we  '11  be  of  one  mind  ! 
May  religion,  law,  order,  be  strictly  defended, 
And  continue  the  blessings  they  first  were  in- 
tended, 
In  union  the  nation  to  hind  ! 
So  fill,  fill  your  glasses,  etc. 

ANONYMOUS. 


AMERICA  TO   GREAT   BRITAIN. 

All  hail  !  thou  noble  land, 
Our  Fathers'  native  soil  ! 
0,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore  ! 
For  thou  with  magic  might 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er  ! 


The  Genius  of  our  clime 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep 
Shall  hail  the  guest  sublime  ; 
While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conehs  the  kindred  league  shall  pro- 
claim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine,  — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line 
Like  the  Milky  Way  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame  ! 

Though  ages  long  have  past 

Since  our  Fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untravelled  seas  to  roam, 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins  ! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ? 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  Bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host ; 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts,  — 
Between  let  Ocean  roll, 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  Sun  ; 
YTet  still  from  either  beach 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"We  are  One." 

Washington  Allston. 


AMERICA. 

0  mother  of  a  mighty  race, 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace  ! 
The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years  ; 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red  ; 
Thy  step,  — the  wild  deer's  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet  j 

Thy  hopeful  eye 
Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 


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POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


445 


■ft 


Ay,  let  them  rail,  those  haughty  ones, 
While  sale  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons. 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 
How  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 

Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  hetween  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide,  — 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley  shades  ; 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen  ; 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  west  ; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared, 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  ocean  border  foams. 

There  's  freedom  at  thy  gates,  and  rest 
For  earth's  down-trodden  and  opprest, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head, 
For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds, 
Stops,  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

0  fair  young  mother  !  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Deep  in  the  brightness  of  thy  skies, 
The  thi'onging  years  in  glory  rise, 

And,  as  they  fleet, 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  with  every  coining  hour, 

Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower; 

And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born, 

Would  brand  thy  name  with  words  of  scorn, 

Before  thine  eye 

Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die. 

William  Cullen  ISryant. 


COLUMBIA. 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  "I'  the  world,  and  child  of  tin1  skies  ! 
Thy  genius  commands  thee  ;  with  rapture  behold, 
While  ages  cm  ages  thy  splendors  unfold. 
Thy  reign  is  the  last  and  the  noblest  of  time, 
Mo  t  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime  ; 
Letthecrime  ofthe  east  ne'er  encrimson  thy  name, 
Be  freedom  and  science  and  virtue  thy  lame. 

To  conque  I  and  slaughter  let  Europe  aspire  ; 
Whelm  nations  in  Mood,  and  wrap  cities  in  fire  ; 
Thy  heroes  the  rights  of  mankind  Bhall  defend, 
And  triumph  puisne  them,  and  glory  attend. 


A  world  is  thy  realm  ;  for  a  world  be  thy  laws, 
Enlarged  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy  cause  ; 
On  Freedom's  broad  basis  that  empire  shall  rise, 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with  theskies. 

Fair  Science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  shall  unbar, 
And  the  east  see  thy  morn  hide  the  beams  of  her  star, 
New  bards  and  new  sages  unrivalled  shall  soar 
To  fame  unextinguished  when  time  is  no  more  ; 
To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  designed, 
Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  mankind  ; 
Here  grateful  to  heaven,  with  transport  shall  bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors  of  spring. 

Nor  less  shall  thy  fair  ones  to  glory  ascend, 
And  genius  and  beauty  in  harmony  blend  ; 
The  graces  of  form  shall  awake  pure  desire, 
And  the  charms  of  the  soul  ever  cherish  the  fire  ; 
Their  sweetness  unmingled,  theirmanners  refined, 
And  virtue's  bright  image,  enstampedon  the  mind, 
With  peace  and  soft  rapture  shall  teach  life  to 

glow, 
And  light  up  a  smile  on  the  aspect  of  woe. 

Thy  fleets  to  all  regions  thy  power  shall  display, 
The  nations  admire,  and  the  ocean  obey  ; 
Each  shore  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold, 
And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their  spices  and 

gold. 
As  the  dayspring  unbounded  thy  splendor  shall 

flow, 
And  earth's  little  kingdoms  before  thee  shall  bow, 
While  the  ensigns  of  union,  in  triumph  unfurled, 
Hush  the  tumult   of  war,  and  give  peace  to  the 

world. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'er- 

spread, 
From  war's  dread  confusion,  I  pensively  strayed, — 
The  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heaven  retired  ; 
The    winds   ceased   to    murmur,    the    thunders 

expired  ; 
Perfumes,  as  of  Eden,  flowed  sweetly  along, 
And  a  voice,  as  of  angels,  enchantingly  sung: 
"Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise. 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies." 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


SONG   OF   MARION'S   MEN. 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  aud  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold  ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 
When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  loihess  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent   the  eypl'ess-tl'ee  ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 
A    seamen  know  the  sea  ; 


•fct 


-ff 


a- 


44G 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


-fj 


We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reed}'  glass, 
Its  sale  and  silent  islands 

"Within  the  dark  morass. 

"Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear  ; 
"When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again  ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil ; 
AVe  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with'laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

"Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads,  — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain  ; 
'T  is  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp  — 

A  moment  —  and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs  ; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  shore. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


WARREN'S   ADDRESS. 

Stand  !  the  ground 's  your  own,  my  braves  ! 
"Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still ! 
What 's  the  mercy  despots  feel  ? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal  ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel  ! 

Ask  it,  —  ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you  !  —  they  're  afire  ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it !     From  the  vale 
On  they  come  !  — and  will  ye  quail  ? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be  ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust  ! 

Die  we  may,  —  and  die  we  must  s 

But,  0,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell  ? 

John  Pierpont. 


THE   OLD   CONTINENTALS. 

Ix  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  continentals, 

Yielding  not, 
When  the  grenadiers  were  lungeing, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon -shot ; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles, 
From  the  smoky  night  encampment,  bore  the  ban- 
ner of  the  rampant 
Unicorn, 
And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer  rolled  the  roll 
of  the  drummer, 
Through  the  morn  ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires  ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 

Blazed  the  fires ; 

As  the  roar 

On  the  shore, 


[& 


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POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND    FREEDOM. 


■ft 


447 


Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green- 
sodded  acres 
Of  the  plain  ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder,  cracked  the  black- 
gunpowder, 
Cracking  amain  ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers  ; 
And  the  "villanous  saltpetre" 
Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 
Round  their  ears  ; 
As  the  swift 
Storm-drift, 
With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horseguards' 
clangor 
On  our  flanks. 
Then  higher,  higher,  higher,  burned  the  old-fash- 
ioned fire 
Through  the  ranks  ! 

Then  the  old-fashioned  colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud  ; 
And  his  broad  sword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet  loud. 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And  the  trooper-jackets  redden  at  the  touch  of 
the  leaden 
Rifle-breath  ; 
And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder,  roared  the  iron 
six-pounder, 
Hurling  death  ! 

Guy  Humphrey  McMaster. 


THE   AMERICAN   FLAG. 

WHEN  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  sel  the  stars  of  glory  there  ! 
She  mingled  with  its  g  .lyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light, 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  hit  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land  ! 

M  tjestic  monarch  of  the  cloud  ! 

Who  rear' -t  alofl  thy  regal  ruin, 
To  hear  the  I  rumpings  loud, 

Ami  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 


When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven,  — 
Child  of  the  Sun  !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  conies  gleaming  on, 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  lines  were  horn  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet  ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 
Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER. 

I)  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming  ?  — 
Whose  broad  stripes  and   bright  stars  through 

the  perilous  fight, 


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POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly 

streaming  ! 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting 

in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was 

still  there  ; 
0  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er    the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 

brave  ? 

On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of 

the  deep, 
"Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence 

reposes, 
"What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering 

steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first 

beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream ; 
'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner  !  0,  long  may  it 

wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 

brave  ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 
That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 
Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps' 

pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the 

grave  ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth 

wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 

brave  ! 

0,  thus  be  it  ever  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desola- 
tion ! 

Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven- 
rescued  land 

Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved 
us  a  nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto,   "In  God  is  our  trust "  ; 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall 
wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 

brave  ! 

Francis  Scott  Key. 


BARBARA  FRIETCHIE. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 


The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde  ; 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall,  — 

Over  the  mountains,  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  ;  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down  ; 

In  her  attic-window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt  !  " —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast ; 
"  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf ; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet ; 


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All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  freedom  and  union,  wave  ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


THE  BLACK   REGIMENT. 

[May  27,  1863.] 

Dark  as  the  clouds  of  even, 
Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dead  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land,  — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
"Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  black  regiment. 

Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eyeballs  shine  ; 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Plashed  with  a  purpose  grand, 
Long  ere  the  sharp  command 
<  If  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment. 

"Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 

"Though  death  and  hell  betide, 

Let  the  whole  nation  see 

If  we  are  lit  to  be 

It  e  in  this  land  ;  or  bound 

Down,  like  the  whining  hound,  - 

1  with  red  Btripes  of  pain 
In  our  colli  chains  a-'ain  !  " 


0,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment  ! 

"  Charge  ! "  Trump  and  drum  awoke  ; 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke  ; 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush, 
With  but  one  thought  aflush, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  guns'  mouths  they  laugh  ; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course  ; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel,  — 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  black  regiment. 

"  Freedom  ! "  their  battle-cry,  — 
"  Freedom  !  or  leave  to  die  !  " 
Ah  !  and  they  meant  the  word, 
Not  as  with  us  't  is  heard, 
Not  a  mere  party  shout ; 
They  gave  their  spirits  out, 
Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood 
Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe  ; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death  ; 
Praying,  —  alas  !  in  vain  !  — 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  liberty  ! 
This  was  what  "freedom"  lent 
To  the  black  regiment. 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell  ; 
But  they  are  resting  well ; 
Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 
0,  to  the  living  few, 
Soldiers,  be  just  ami  true  : 
Hail  them  as  comrades  tried  : 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side  ; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  black  regiment  ! 

GEORGE  HENRY  B0KER. 


SHERIDAN'S   RIDE. 

Op  from  the  South  a1  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 


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The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar, 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uni  ontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  eold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  iiery  fray, 

With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down  ; 

And  there  through  the  Hash  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  hight. 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  the  utmost  speed  ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell,  —  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  Hying  before  the  wind  ; 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire  ; 

But,  lo  !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire, 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops  ; 
"What  was  done, — what  to  do, — a  glance  told 

him  both, 
And,  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 
He  dashed  down  the  line  mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there 

because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
"With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was 

gray, 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  nostril's  play 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
"  1  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester,  down  to  save  the  day  ! " 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky,  — 
Tin-  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, — 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name 
Be  i\  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright  : 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester,  —  twenty  miles  away  !" 

•]  H. mas  Buchanan  Read. 


THE   LITTLE   CLOUD. 

[Written  in  1853.] 

As  when,  on  Carmel's  sterile  steep, 
The  ancient  prophet  bowed  the  knee, 

And  seven  times  sent  his  servant  forth 
To  look  toward  the  distant  sea  ; 

There  came  at  last  a  little  cloud, 
Scarce  larger  than  the  human  hand, 

Spreading  and  swelling  till  it  broke 
In  showers  on  all  the  herbless  land. 

And  hearts  were  glad,  and  shouts  went  up, 
And  praise  to  Israel's  mighty  God, 

As  the  sear  hills  grew  bright  with  flowers, 
And  verdure  clothed  the  valley  sod. 

Even  so  our  eyes  have  waited  long  ; 

But  now  a  little  cloud  appears, 
Spreading  and  swelling  as  it  glides 

Onward  into  the  coming  years. 

Bright  cloud  of  Liberty  !  full  soon, 
Far  stretching  from  the  ocean  strand, 

Thy  glorious  folds  shall  spread  abroad, 
Encircling  our  beloved  land. 

Like  the  sweet  rain  on  Judah's  hills, 
The  glorious  boon  of  love  shall  fall, 

And  our  bond  millions  shall  arise, 
As  at  an  angel's  trumpet-call. 

Then  shall  a  shout  of  joy  go  up, 
The  wild,  glad  cry  of  freedom  come 

From  hearts  long  crushed  by  cruel  hands, 
And  songs  from  lips  long  sealed  and  dumb. 

And  every  bondman's  chain  be  broke, 

And  every  soul  that  moves  abroad 

In  this  wide  realm  shall  know  and  feel 

The  blessed  Liberty  of  God. 

John  Howard  Bryant. 


MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

fMarco  Bozzaris,  the  Epaminondas  of  modern  Greece,  fell  in  a 
night  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  l.aspi,  the  site  of  the  an- 
cient Platsa,  August  20,  1823,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of  victory. 
His  last  words  were:  "To  die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure,  and  not 
a  pain."] 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 
The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 

When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 
Should  tremble  at  his  power. 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 

The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard  ; 


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Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring, 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne  — a  king  ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 
As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  hand,  — 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood, 

<  in  old  Plataea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arms  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far,  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on,  the  Turk  awoke  : 

That  blight  dream  was  his  last  ; 
He  woke —  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 

"Toarras  !  they  comet  the  Greek!  theGreek!" 
He  woke  —  to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud  ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 
"Strike  —  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires  ; 
Strike  —  for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
Strike  —  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 

God,  and  your  native  land  !  " 

They  fought  —  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain  : 
They  conquered  —  but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
Hi-  smile  wben  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

Ami  the  red  Held  was  won  ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
(  aiinly,  as  to  a  night's  repose. 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  death, 
Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 

the  firsl  time,  her  first-born's  breath; 
( lome  « Inn  tie'  blessed  seals 

Thai  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 

And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ; 

Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 

The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm  ; 

Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 
With  banquel  song  and  dance  and  wine, — 

And  thou  ait  terrible  :  the  tear, 

The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 

.And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

'  l|  agony,  are  thine. 


Bui  to  the  hero,  when  hi-  sword 
II.    won  lie-  battle  for  tie-  lice, 


Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought ; 
Come  witli  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought  ; 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour,  —  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men  ; 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
"When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytiau  seas. 

Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee  ;  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  hade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb. 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone. 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed  ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells  ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells  ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed. 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow  ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears. 

And  she,  tlie  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys,  — 

And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, — 
Will,  by  her  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigli  ; 
For  thou  art  freedom's  now,  and  fame's,  — 
<  Ine  of  tie'  few,  the  immortal  names 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 

FITZ-GREENB   llAI.LECK. 


GREECE. 

THF.    "GIAOUK." 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 


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Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave  ! 
Shrine  of  the  mighty  !  can  it  he 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 
Approach,  thou  craven,  crouching  slave  ; 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ? 
These  waters  hlue  that  round  you  lave, 

0  servile  offspring  of  the  free, 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this  ? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis  ! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 
Arise  and  make  again  your  own  ; 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  emhers  of  their  former  fires  ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame ; 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  oft  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it,  many  a  deathless  age  : 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Have  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command, 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land  ! 
There  points  thy  muse  to  stranger's  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die  ! 
'T  were  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 
Each  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace  : 
Enough,  —  no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell  ; 
Yes  !  self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway. 
What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore  ? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar, 
High  as  thine  own  in  days  of  yore, 

When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime, 
Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Slaves  —  nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave, 

And  callous  save  to  crime. 

BYRON. 


POLAND. 

FROM    "THE    PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY." 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  sur- 
veyed, 

Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid  ; 

"  0  Heaven  !  "  he  cried,  "  my  bleeding  country 
save  !  — 


Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave  ? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains, 
Rise,  fellow-men  !  our  country  yet  remains  ! 
B}r  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high, 
And  swear  for  her  to  live  —  with  her  to  die  !  " 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  arrayed 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed  ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm  ; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge,  or  death,  — the  watchword  and  reply  ; 
Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm  !  — 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few  ! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew  :  — 
0,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time  ! 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime  ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe  ! 
Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered 

spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  ca- 
reer ; 
Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 

And  Freedom  shrieked  —  as  Kosciusko  fell ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


MEN   AND   BOYS. 

The  storm  is  out ;  the  land  is  roused  ; 
Where  is  the  coward  who  sits  well  housed  ? 
Fie  on  thee,  boy,  disguised  in  curls, 
Behind  the  stove,  'mong  gluttons  and  girls. 

A  graceless,  worthless  wight  thou  must  be  ; 

No  German  maid  desires  thee, 

No  German  song  inspires  thee, 

No  German  Rhine-wine  fires  thee. 
Forth  in  the  van, 
Man  by  man, 

Swing  the  battle-sword  who  can. 

When,  we  stand  watching,  the  livelong  night, 
Through  piping  storms,  till  morning  light, 
Thou  to  thy  downy  bed  canst  creep, 
And  there  in  dreams  of  rapture  sleep. 
A  graceless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 

When  hoarse  and  shrill,  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Like  the  thunder  of  God,  makes  our  hearts  beat 

fast, 
Thou  in  the  theatre  lov'st  to  appear, 
Where  trills  and  quavers  tickle  the  ear. 
A  graceless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 

When  the  glare  of  noonday  scorches  the  brain, 
When  our  parched  lips  seek  water  in  vain, 
Thou  canst  make  champagne  corks  fly 
At  the  groaning  tables  of  luxury. 
A  graceless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 


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When  we,  as  we  rush  to  the  strangling  fight, 
Seiulhoraeto  ourtrue-lovesalong  "Good-night," 
Thou  canst  hie  thee  where  love  is  sold, 
And  buy  thy  pleasure  with  paltry  gold. 
A  graceless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 

When  lance  and  bullet  come  whistling  by, 
And  death  in  a  thousand  shapes  draws  nigh, 
Thou  canst  sit  at  thy  cards,  and  kill 
King,  queen,  and  knave  with  thy  spadille. 
A  graceless,  worthless  wight,  etc. 

If  on  the  red  field  our  bell  should  toll, 
Then  welcome  be  death  to  the  patriot's  soul. 
Thy  pampered  flesh  shall  quake  at  its  doom, 
And  crawl  in  silk  to  a  hopeless  torn  . 
A  pitiful  exit  thine  shall  be  ; 
No  German  maid  shall  weep  for  thee, 
No  German  song  shall  they,  sing  for  thee, 
No  German  goblets  shall  ring  for  thee. 
Forth  in  the  van, 
Man  for  man, 
Swing  the  battle-sword  who  can  ! 

KuRNKR.     Translation  of 

Charles  T.  Brooks. 


ITALY. 

FROM    "CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS." 

"  Less  wretched  if  less  fair."   Perhaps  a  truth 
Is  so  far  plain  in  this,  — -that  Italy, 

Long  trammelled  with  the  purple  of  her  youth 
Against  her  age's  ripe  activity, 

Si  is  still  upon  her  tombs,  without  death's  ruth, 
But  also  without  life's  brave  energy. 

"  Now  tell  us  what  is  Italy  ? "  men  ask  : 
And  others  answer,  "Virgil,  Cicero, 

Catullus,  Cajsar."     What  beside  ?  to  task 
The  memory  closer,  —  "  Why,  Boccaccio, 

Dante,  IVtrarca,"  —  and  if  still  the  flask 
Appears  to  yield  its  wine  by  drops  too  slow, — 

"Augelo,  Raffael,  Pergolese," — all 
Whose    strong   hearts    beat   through    stone,    or 
charged  again 

The  paints  with  fire  of  souls  electrical, 
Or  broke  up  heaven  for  music.   What  more  then  ''. 

Why,  then,  no  more.  Thechaplet's  last  beads 
'  fall 
In  naming  the  last  saintship  within  ken, 

And,  after  that,  none  prayeth  in  the  land. 
Alas,  this  Italy  has  too  long  swept 

Heroic  <  lies  up  for  hour-glass  sand  ; 
Of  her  own  past,  impassioned  nympholepl  ! 

Consenting  to  be  nailed  here  by  the  hand 
To  the  very  bay-tree  under  which  she  stepped 

A  queen  of  old,  and  plucked  a  leafy  branch. 
And,  licensing  the  world  too  long  ind 1 

To  use  her  broad  phylacteries  to  stanch 


And  stop  her  bloody  lips,  she  takes  no  heed 

How  one  clear  word  would  draw  an  avalanche 
Of  living  sons  around  her,  to  succeed 

The  vanished  generations.     Can  she  count 
These  oil-eaters,  with  large,  live,  mobile  mouths 

Agape  for  macaroni,  in  the  amount 
Of  consecrated  heroes  of  her  south's 

Bright  rosary  ?     The  pitcher  at  the  fount, 
The  gift  of  gods,  being  broken,  she  much  loathes 

To  let  the  ground-leaves  of  the  place  confer 
A  natural  bowl.     So  henceforth  she  would  seem 

No  nation,  but  the  poet's  pensioner, 
With  alms  from  every  land  of  song  and  dream, 

While  aye  her  pipers  sadly  pipe  of  her, 

Until  their  proper  breaths,  in  that  extreme 

Of  sighing,  split  the  reed  on  which  they  played ! 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


A   COURT    LADY. 

i. 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with 
purple  were  dark, 

Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and  rest- 
less spark. 

ir. 
Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name  and  in 

race  ; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the  face. 

ITT. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman  and 

wife, 
Larger   in  judgment  and   instinct,   prouder   in 

manners  and  life. 

IV. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said  to  her 

maidens,  "  Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  court 

of  the  king. 

v. 
"Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid,  clear 

of  tin'  mote, 
Clasp  nir  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp  me  the 

small  at  the  throat. 

VI. 

"Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds  to 

fasten  the  sleeves, 
Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of 

snow  from  the  eaves." 
VII. 

mis  she  entered  tin'  sunlight  which  gath- 
ered her  up  in  a  flame, 
While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to  the 
hospital  came. 


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VIII. 


In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing,  from  end  to 

end, 
"Many  and  low  arc  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the 

place  of  a  friend." 


IX. 


Up  she  passed  through  the  wards,  and  stood  at 

a  young  man's  bed  : 
Bloody  the  baud  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the  droop 

of  his  head. 


x. 


"Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother?   Happy  art 

thou  !"  she  cried, 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him  :  he  dreamed  in 

her  face  and  died. 


XI. 


Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still  to  a 
second  : 

He  was  a  grave,  hard  man,  whose  years  by  dun- 
geons were  reckoned. 


XII. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in  his 
life  were  sorer. 

"  Art  thou  a  Romagnole  ?  "  Her  eyes  drove  light- 
nings before  her. 

XIII. 

"  Austrian  and  priest  had  joined  to  double  and 

tighten  the  cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one,  —  free  by  the 

stroke  of  a  sword. 

XIV. 

"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using  the  life 

overcast 
To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present  (too  new)  in 

glooms  of  the  past." 

xv. 

Down  she  stepped  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a  face 

like  a  girl's, 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying,  — a  deep  black 

hole  in  the  curls. 

XVI. 

"Art   thou  from   Tuscany,  brother?  and  seest 

thou,  dreaming  in  pain, 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the 

list  of  the  slain  ?  " 

XVII. 

Band  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched  his  cheeks 

with  her  hands  : 
"Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  although 

she  should  weep  as  she  stands." 


XVIII. 

On  she  passed  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm  carried 

off  by  a  ball  : 
Kneeling,  .  .   "0  more  than  my  brother !  how 

shall  I  thank  thee  for  all  ? 

XIX.      , 

' '  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought  for 

his  land  and  line, 
But  tlwu  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate  of  a 

wrong  not  thine. 

xx. 

Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be  dis- 
possessed. 

But  blessed  are  those  among  nations  who  dare 
to  be  strong  for  the  rest  !  " 

•     xxi. 

Ever  she  passed  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a  couch 

where  pined 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a  hope 

out  of  mind. 

XXII. 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she  tried  at 

the  name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  faltered 

and  came. 

XXIII. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ?  — ■  she  turned  as  in  pas- 
sion and  loss, 

And  stooped  to  his  forehead  and  kissed  it,  as  if 
she  were  kissing  the  cross. 

XXIV. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart,  she  moved  on 

then  to  another, 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.    ' '  And  dost  thou 

suffer,  my  brother  ?  " 

XXV. 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers  :  — ■  "  Out  of  the  Pied- 
mont lion 

Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom  !  sweetest  to 
live  or  to  die  on." 

XXVI. 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands,  —  "Well,  0,  well 

have  ye  done 
In  noble,  noble    Piedmont,  who  would  not  be 

noble  alone." 

XXVII. 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  rose  to  he) 

feet  with  a  spring,  — 

' '  That  was  a  Piedmontese  !  and  this  is  the  Com  t 

of  the  King." 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


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THE   MINSTREL   BOY. 

The  minstrel  hoy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you  '11  find  him, 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 
"  Land  of  song  !  "  said  the  warrior  bard, 

"  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee  !  " 

The  minstrel  fell  !  —  but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under  ; 
The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder, 
And  said,  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery  ! " 

THOMAS  Moore  ("  Irish  Melodies  "). 


LET   ERIN   REMEMBER   THE   DAYS   OF 
OLD. 

Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old, 

Ere  her  faithless  sons  betrayed  her  ; 
When  Malachi  wore  the  collar  of  gold 

"Which  he  won  from  her  proud  invader  ; 
When  her  kings  with  standard  of  green  unfurled 

Led  the  Red- Branch  Knights  to  danger, 
Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  western  world 

Was  set  in  the  crown  of  a  stranger. 

O-n  Lough  Neagh's  bank  as  the  fisherman  strays, 

When  the  clear  cold  eve  's  declining, 
He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 

In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining  ! 
Thus  shall  memory  often,  in  dreams  sublime, 

Catch  a  glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over, 
Thus,  sighing,  look  through  the  waves  of  time 

For  the  long-faded  glories  they  cover  ! 

THOMAS  Moore  ("Irish  Melodies"). 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  unite  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  wen-  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  thai  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more  ! 


No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The.  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

THOMAS  MOORE  (■Irish  Melodies"). 


0,  BREATHE   NOT   HIS   NAME! 

(ROBERT   EMMETT.) 

0,  breathe  not  his  name  !  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are  laid  ; 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night  dew  that  falls  on  the  grave  o'er  his 
head. 

But  the  night  dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence 

it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he 

sleeps  ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


SHAN   VAN   VOCHT. 

0,  the  French  are  on  the  say  ! 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
The  French  are  on  the  say, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ; 
0,  the  French  are  in  the  bay  ! 
They  '11  be  here  without  delay, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
0,  tlic  French  arc  in  tlic  bay  I 
Thn/'ll  be  here  bji  break  of  day, 
And  tlic  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  tlic  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
Where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ; 
On  the  Currach  of  Kildare, 
The  hoys  they  will  be  there 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 
S  ;.  !  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
To  tlie  Currach  of  Kildare 
Tlie  I  \ya  they  will  repair, 
And  Lord  Edward  will  be  there, 
Says  tlic  Slum  Van  Vocht. 


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Then  what  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  should  the  yeomen  do, 
But  throw  otf  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they  '11  he  true 
To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht  ? 
What  should  the  yeomen  do, 
But  throw  off  tlu  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  tluit  tliey  '11  be  true 
To  the  Slum  Van  Vocht  ? 

And  what  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
"What  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  color  should  be  seen, 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  green  ? 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
What  color  should  be  seen, 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  green  1 
Says  tlu,  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
Will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
Yes  !  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea  ; 
Then  hurrah  for  liberty  ! 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Yes  /  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
From  tlie  centre  to  the  sea  ; 
Then  hurrah  for  liberty  ! 
Says  tloe  Slum  Van  Vocht. 

ANONYMOUS. 


AS  BY  THE  SHORE  AT  BREAK  OF  DAY. 

As  by  the  shore,  at  break  of  day, 
A  vanquished  chief  expiring  lay, 
Upon  the  sands,  with  broken  sword, 

He  traced  his  farewell  to  the  free  ; 
And  there  the  last  unfinished  word 

He  dying  wrote,  was  "  Liberty  !  " 

At  night  a  sea-bird  shrieked  the  knell 
Of  him  who  thus  for  freedom  fell ; 
The  words  he  wrote,  ere  evening  came, 

Were  covered  by  the  sounding  sea  ;  — 
So  pass  away  the  cause  and  name 

Of  him  who  dies  for  liberty  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


GOUGAUNE   BARRA. 

[The  Lake  of  Gougaune  Barra,  1.  e.  the  hollow,  or  recess  of 
St.  Finn  Bar,  in  the  rugged  territory  of  Ibh-Laoghaire  (the 
O'Learys'  country),  in  the  west  end  of  the  county  of  Cork,  is  the 
parent  of  the  river  Lee.  Its  waters  embrace  a  small  but  verdant 
island  of  about  half  an  acre  in  extent,  which  approaches  its  east- 
ern shore.  The  lake,  as  its  name  implies,  is  situate  in  a  deep 
hollow,  surrounded  on  every  side  (save  the  east,  where  its  super- 
abundant waters  are  discharged)  by  vast  and  almost  perpendirul  ir 
mountains,  whose  dark  inverted  shadows  are  gloomily  reflected  in 
its  stiU  waters  beneath.] 

There  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougaune  Barra, 
Where  Allua  of  songs  rushes  forth  as  an  arrow  ; 
In  deep-valleyed  Desmond  —  a  thousand  wild 

fountains 
Come  down  to  that  lake  from  their  home  in  the 

mountains. 
There  grows  the  wild  ash,  and  a  time-stricken 

willow 
Looks  chidingly  down  on  the  mirth  of  the  billow  ; 
As,  likesome  gay  child,  thatsad  monitor  scorning, 
It  lightly  laughs  back  to  the  laugh  of  the  morning. 

And  its  zone  of  dark  hills,  —  0,  to  see  them  all 

brightening, 
When  the  tempest  flings  out  its  red  banner  of 

lightning, 
And  the  waters  rush  down,  mid  the  thunder's 

deep  rattle, 
Like  clans  from  their  hills  at  the  voice  of  the  battle  ; 
And  brightly  the  fire-crested  billows  are  gleaming, 
And  wildly  from  Mullagh  the  eagles  are  screaming ! 
0,  where  is  the  dwelling,  in  valley  or  highland, 
So  meet  for  a  bard  as  this  lone  little  island  ? 

How  oft  when  the  summer  sun  rested  on  Clara, 
And  lit  the  dark  heath  on  the  hills  of  Ivera, 
Have  I  sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home 

by  the  ocean, 
And  trod  all  thy  wilds  with  a  minstrel's  devotion, 
And  thought  of  thy  bards,  when  assembling  to- 
gether, 
In  the  cleft  of  thy  rocks,  or  the  depth  of  thy 

heather ; 
They  fled  from  the  Saxon's  dark  bondage  and 

slaughter, 
And  waked  their  last  song  by  the  rush  of  thy  water. 

High  sons  of  the  lyre,  0,  how  proud  was  the 

feeling, 
To  think  while  alone  through  that  solitude  steal- 

Though  loftier  minstrels  green  Erin  can  number, 
I  only  awoke  your  wild  harp  from  its  slumber, 
And  mingled  once  more  with  the  voice  of  those 

fountains 
The  songs  even  Echo  forgot  on  her  mountains  ; 
And  gleaned  each  gray  legend  that  darkly  was 

sleeping 
Where  the  mist  and  the  rain  o'er  their  beauty 

were  creeping  ! 


[9— 


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POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


457 


Least  bard  of  the  hills  !  were  it  mine  to  inherit 
The  fire  of  thy  harp  and  the  wing  of  thy  spirit, 
With  the  wrongs  which  like  thee  to  our  country 

have  bound  me, 
Did  your  mantle  of  song  fling  its  radiance  around 

me, 
Still,  still  in  those  wilds  might  young  Liberty  rally, 
And  send  her  strong  shout  over  mountain  and 

valley, 
The  star  of  the  west  might  yet  rise  in  its  glory, 
And  the  land  that  was  darkest  be  brightest  in  story. 

I  too  shall  be  gone ;  —  but  my  name  shall  be  spoken 
When  Erin  awakes  and  her  fetters  are  broken. 
Some  minstrel  will  come,  in  the  summer  eve's 

gleaming, 
When    Freedom's  young  light  on   his   spirit  is 

beaming, 
And  bend  o'er  my  grave  with  a  tear  of  emotion, 
Where  calm  Avon-Buee  seeks  the  kisses  of  ocean, 
Or  plant  a  wild  wreath,  from  the  banks  of  that  river, 
O'er  the  heart  and  the  harp  that  are  sleeping  for- 

ever<  j.  J.  CALLANAN. 


EXILE  OF  ERIN. 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin, 

The  clew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill ; 
For  his   country  he   sighed,  when   at   twilight 
repairing 
To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 
But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 
For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 
Where  once,  in  the  lire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 
He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sud  is  my  fate  !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger  ; 

The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee, 
Bui  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 

A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 
Never  again  in  the  green  sunny  bowers 
Where   my  forefathers   lived  shall  I  spend  the 

Bweel  hours, 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowers, 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Krin.  mj  country  '  though  Bad  and  forsaken, 

In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  slime  ; 
But,  ;ila-   !    in  a  tar  foreign  land   I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no 

more  ! 
' )  cruel  late  !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 
In  a  mansion  of  peace,  where  mi  perils  can  chase 

me  I 

Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ' 
They  died  l<>  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore  ! 


Where  is  my  cabin  door,  fast  by  the  wildwood  ? 

Sisters  and  sire,  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on  my  childhood  ? 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend,  dearer  than  all  ? 
0  my  sad  heart  !  long  abandoned  by  pleasure, 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure  ? 
Tears,    like   the    rain-drop,    may    fall    without 
measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

Yet,  all  its  sad  recollections  supjiressing, 

One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw,  — 

Erin,  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing  ! 
Land  of  my  forefathers,  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean  ! 

And  thy  harp-striking   bards   sing  aloud   with 
devotion,  — 
Erin  mavourneen,  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


IRELAND. 

They  are   dying !  they   are   dying  !  where    t  he 

golden  corn  is  growing  ; 
They   are   dying  !    they   are   dying !  where  the 

crowded  herds  are  lowing  ; 
They  are  gasping  for  existence  where  the  streams 

of  life  are  flowing, 
And  they  perish  of  the  plague  where  the  breeze 

of  health  is  blowing  ! 

God  of  justice  !  God  of  power  ! 

Do  we  dream  ?     Can  it  be, 
In  this  land,  at  this  hour, 

With  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
In  the  gladsome  month  of  May, 
When  the  young  lambs  play, 
When  Nature  looks  around 

On  her  waking  children  now, 
The  seed  within  the  ground, 

The  bud  upon  the  bough  I 
Is  it  right,  is  it  fair, 
That  we  perish  of  despair 
In  this  land,  on  this  soil, 

Where  out'  destiny  is  set, 
Which  we  cultured  with  our  toil, 

And  watered  with  our  sweat  .' 

We  have  ploughi  d,  we  have  -own, 
But  the  crop  was  not  our  own  ; 
We  have  reaped,  but  harpy  hands 
Swept  the  harvest  from  our  lands  ; 
AVc  were  perishing  for  food. 
When  lo  !  in  pitying  mood, 
<  »ur  kindly  rulers  gave  • 
The  tat  fluid  of  the  slave, 
While  our  corn  rilled  the  manger 
in'  the  war-horse  of  the  stranger  ! 


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POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


-a 


God  of  mercy  !  must  this  last  ? 

Is  this  land  preordained, 
For  the  present  and  the  past 

And  the  future,  to  be  chained,  — 

To  be  ravaged,  to  be  drained, 
To  be  robbed,  to  be  spoiled, 

To  be  hushed,  to  be  whipt, 

Its  soaring  pinions  dipt, 
And  its  every  effort  foiled  ? 

Do  our  numbers  multiply 
But  to  perish  and  to  die  ? 

Is  this  all  our  destiny  below, 
That  our  bodies,  as  they  rot, 
May  fertilize  the  spot 

Where  the  harvests  of  the  stranger  grow  ? 

If  this  be,  indeed,  our  fate, 
Far,  far  better  now,  though  late, 
That  we   seek  some  other   iand  and   try   some 
other  zone  ; 
The  coldest,  bleakest  shore 
Will  surely  yield  us  more 
Than  the  storehouse  of  the  stranger  that  we  dare 
not  call  our  own. 

Kindly  brothers  of  the  West, 
Who  from  Liberty's  full  breast 
Have  fed  us,  who  are  orphans  beneath  a  step-dame's 
frown, 
Behold  our  happy  state, 
And  weep  your  wretched  fate 
That  you  share  not  in  the  splendors  of  our  empire 
and  our  crown! 

Kindly  brothers  of  the  East,  — 

Thou  great  tiara' d  priest, 
Thou  sanctified  liit-nzi  of'IIomeand  of  the  earth, — 

Or  thou  who  bear'sl  control 

Over  golden  Istambol, 
Who  felt  for  our  misfortunes  and  helped  us  in 
our  dearth,  — 

Turn  here  your  wondering  eyes, 
Call  your  wisest  of  the  wise, 
Your  muftis  and  your  ministers,   your  men  of 
deepesl  lore  ; 
Let  the  sagest  of  your  sages 
Ope  our  island's  mystic  pages, 
And  explain  unto  your  highness  the  wonders  of 
our  shore. 

A  fruitful,  teeming  soil, 

Where  the  patient  peasants  toil 
Beneath  the  summer's  sun  and  the  watery  winter 
sky; 

Where  they  tend  the  golden  grain 

Till  it  bends  upon  tin-  plain, 
Thenreapit  for  tin-  stranger,  and  turn  aside  to  die. 


Where  they  watch  their  flocks  increase, 
And  store  the  snowy  fleece 
Till  they  send  it  to  their  masters  to  be  woven 
o'er  the  waves  ; 
Where,  having  sent  their  meat 
For  the  foreigner  to  eat, 
Their  mission  is  fulfilled,  and  they  creep  into 
their  graves. 

'T  is  for  this  they  are  dying  where   the  golden 

corn  is  growing, 
'T  is  for  this  they  are  dying  where  the  crowded 

herds  are  lowing, 
'T  is  for  this  they  are  dying  where  the  streams 

of  life  are  flowing, 
And  they  perish  of  the  plague  where  the  breeze 


of  health  is  blowing  ! 


1847. 


DENIS  FLORENCE  MAC-CARTHY. 


GIVE    ME    THREE     GRAINS    OF    CORN, 
MOTHER. 


THE    IRISH    FAMINE. 


Give  me  three  grains  of  corn,  mother,  — 

Only  three  grains  of  corn  ; 
It  will  keep  the  little  life  I  have 

Till  the  coming  of  the  morn. 
I  am  dying  of  hunger  and  cold,  mother.  — 

Dying  of  hunger  and  cold  ; 
And  half  the  agony  of  such  a  death 

My  lips  have  never  told. 

It  has  gnawed  like  a  wolf,  at  my  heart,  mother,  ■ 

A  wolf  that  is  fierce  for  blood  ; 
All  the  livelong  day,  and  the  night  beside, 

Gnawing  for  lack  of  food. 
I  dreamed  of  bread  in  my  sleep,  mother, 

And  the  sight  was  heaven  to  see  ; 
I  awoke  with  an  eager,  famishing  lip, 

But  you  had  no  bread  for  me. 

How  could  I  look  to  you,  mother,  — 

How  could  I  look  to  you, 
For  bread  to  give  to  your  starving  boy, 

When  you  were  starving  too  ? 
For  I  read  the  famine  in  your  cheek, 

And  in  your  eyes  so  wild, 
And  I  felt  it  in  your  bony  hand, 

As  you  laid  it  on  your,  child. 

The  Queen  has  lands  and  gold,  mother,  — 

The  Queen  has  lands  and  gold, 
While  you  are  forced  to  your  empty  breast 

A  skeleton  babe  to  hold,  — 
A  babe  that  is  dying  of  want,  mother, 

As  I  am  dying  now, 
With  a  ghastly  look  in  its  sunken  eye, 

And  famine  upon  its  brow. 


B- 


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POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


459 


•a 


What  has  poor  Ireland  done,  mother,  — 

What  has  poor  Ireland  done, 
That  the  world  looks  on,  and  sees  us  starve, 

Perishing,  one  by  one  ? 
Do  the  men  of  England  care  not,  mother,  — 

The  great  men  and  the  high, 
For  the  suffering  sons  of  Erin's  isle, 

Whether  they  live  or  die  ? 

There  is  many  a  brave  heart  here,  mother, 

Dying  of  want  and  cold, 
While  only  across  the  Channel,  mother, 

Are  many  that  roll  in  gold  ; 
There  are  rich  and  proud  men  there,  mother, 

With  wondrous  wealth  to  view, 
And  the  bread  they  fling  to  their  dogs  to-night 

Would  give  life  to  me  and  you. 

Come  nearer  to  my  side,  mother, 

Come  nearer  to  my  side, 
And  hold  me  fondly,  as  you  held 

My  father  when  he  died  ; 
Quick,  for  I  cannot  see  you,  mother, 

My  breath  is  almost  gone  ; 
Mother  !  dear  mother  !  ere  I  die, 


Give  me  three  grains  of  corn. 


Miss  Edwards. 


WHAT   CONSTITUTES  A  STATE? 

What  constitutes  a  state  ? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
N..t  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned  ; 

Not  hays  and  broad-armed  ports, 
When-,  laughing  at  tin-  storm,  rich  navies  ride  ; 

No'  starred  and  spangled  courts, 
Where    low-browed   baseness  wafts  perfume  to 
pride. 

No  :  —  men,  high-minded  men, 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
A    b  ''1  cold  rocksand  hrambles  rude, — 

Men  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  main- 
iin, 

Prevenl  tin-  long-aimed  blow, 
Ami  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain  ; 

'I'll''  -■  constitute  a  state  ; 
Ami  sovereign  law,  thai  state's  collected  will, 

( >'ei'  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill. 

Smil  by  her  sacred  frown, 
The  Bend,  Dissension,  like  a  vapor  sinks  ; 

And  e'en  the  all  -da  //.]  ing  erown 
Hides  his  taint  r;iv,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks  ; 
Such  was  this  heaven-loved  Isle, 


Than  Lesbos  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore  ! 

No  more  shall  freedom  smile  ? 
Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign. 
Those  sweet  rewards  which  decorate  the  brave 

'T  is  folly  to  decline, 

And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

Sir  William  Jones. 


CARACTACUS. 

Before  proud  Rome's  imperial  throne 

In  mind's  unconquered  mood, 
As  if  the  triumph  were  his  own, 

The  dauntless  captive  stood. 
None,  to  have  seen  his  freeborn  air, 
Had  fancied  him  a  captive  there. 

Though  through  the  crowded  streets  of  Rome, 

With  slow  and  stately  tread, 
Far  from  his  own  loved  island  home, 

That  day  in  triumph  led,  — 
Unbound  his  head,  unbent  his  knee, 
Undimmed  his  eye,  his  aspect  free. 

A  free  and  fearless  glance  he  cast 

On  temple,  arch,  and  tower, 
By  which  the  long  procession  passed 

Of  Pome's  victorious  power  ; 
And  somewhat  of  a  scornful  smile 
Upcurled  his  haughty  lip  the  while. 

And  now  he  stood,  with  brow  serene, 
Where  slaves  might  prostrate  fall, 

Bearing  a  Briton's  manly  mien 
In  Caesar's  palace  hall  ; 

Claiming,  with  kindled  brow  and  cheek, 

The  liberty  e'en  there  to  speak. 

Nor  could  Pome's  haughty  hud  withstand 

The  claim  that  look  preferred, 
But  motioned  with  uplifted  hand 

The  suppliant  should  be  heard,  — 
If  he  indeed  a  suppliant  were 
Whose  glance  demanded  audience  there. 

Deep  stillness  fell  on  all  the  crowd, 

From  Claudius  on  Ids  throne 
Down  to  the  meanest  slave  that  bowed 

At  his  imperial  throne  ; 
Silent  his  fellow-captive's  grief 
As  fearless  spoke  the  Island  Chief. 

"Think  not,  thou  eagle  Lord  of  Rome, 

And  master  of  the  world, 
Though  victory's  banner  o'er  thy  dome 

In  triumph  now  is  furled, 

I  would  address  thee  as  thy  slave, 

But  as  the  bold  should  greet  the  brave  ! 


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POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


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"  I  might  perchance,  co\ild  I  have  deigned, 

To  hold  a  vassal's  throne, 
E'en  now  in  Britain's  isle  have  reigned 

A  king  in  name  alone, 
Yet  holding,  as  thy  meek  ally, 
A  monarch's  mimic  pageantry. 

"  Then  through  Rome's  crowded  streets  to-day 

I  might  have  rode  with  thee, 
Not  in  a  captive's  base  array, 

But  fetterless  and  free,  — 
If  freedom  he  could  hope  to  find, 
"Whose  bondage  is  of  heart  and  mind. 

"  But  canst  thou  marvel  that,  freebom, 

With  heart  and  soul  unquelled, 
Throne,  crown,  and  sceptre  I  should  scorn, 

By  thy  permission  held  ? 
Or  that  I  should  retain  my  right 
Till  wrested  by  a  conqueror's  might  ? 

"Rome,  with  her  palaces  and  towers, 

By  us  unwished,  unreft, 
Her  homely  huts  and  woodland  bowers 

To  Britain  might  have  left ; 
"Worthless  to  you  their  wealth  must  be, 
But  dear  to  us,  for  they  were  free  ! 

"  I  might  have  bowed  before,  but  where 

Had  been  thy  triumph  now  ? 
To  my  resolve  no  yoke  to  bear 

Thou  ow'st  thy  laurelled  brow  ; 
Inglorious  victory  had  been  thine, 
And  more  inglorious  bondage  mine. 

' '  Now  I  have  spoken,  do  thy  will ; 

Be  life  or  death  my  lot, 
Since  Britain's  throne  no  more  I  fill, 

To  me  it  matters  not. 
My  fame  is  clear  ;  but  on  my  fate 
Thy  glory  or  thy  shame  must  wait." 

He  ceased  ;  from  all  around  upsprung 

A  murmur  of  applause, 
For  well  had  truth  and  freedom's  tongue 

Maintnined  their  holy  cause. 
Their  conqueror  was  their  captive  then, 
He  bade  the  slave  be  free  again. 

Bernard  Barton. 


BOSTON   HYMN. 

READ    IN   MUSIC   HALL,    JANUARY    I,    1863. 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 
As  they  sat  by  the  seaside, 
A  nd  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 


God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 
I  suffer  them  no  more  ; 
Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 

A  field  of  havoc  and  war, 

Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor  ? 

My  angel,  —  his  name  is  Freedom,  — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king  ; 
He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 
And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo  !  I  uncover  the  land 
Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  the  statue 
When  he  has  wrought  his  best ; 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas, 
And  soar  to  the  air-borne  fiocks 
Of  clouds,  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods  ; 
Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave  : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 
And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 
No  lineage  counted  great ; 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs  ; 
Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 
The  young  men  and  the  sires, 
The  digger  in  the  harvest-field, 
Hireling,  and  him  that  hires  ; 

And  here  in  a  pine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 
In  every  needful  faculty, 
In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now  !  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea, 
And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun, 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men  ; 

'T  is  nobleness  to  serve  ; 

Help  them  who  cannot  help  again  : 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 


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POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


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461 


I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 
And  I  unchain  the  slave  : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth 
As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 
His  proper  good  to  flow  ; 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 
So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But,  laying  hands  on  another 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat, 
He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive, 
So  only  are  ye  unbound  ; 
Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 
Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound  ! 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner, 

And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim. 

"Who  is  the  owner  ?    The  slave  is  owner, 

And  ever  was.     Pay  him. 

0  North  !  give  him  beauty  for  rags, 
And  honor,  0  South  !  for  his  shame  ; 
Nevada  !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up  !  and  the  dusky  race 
That  sat  in  darkness  long, 
Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 
And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 
By  races,  as  snow-flakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 
Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be, 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 
My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


THE  LANDING    OF  THE    PILGRIM 
THERS   IN   NEW    ENGLAND. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woo  inst  a  stormy  sky 

Their  giant  branches  tossed  ; 

And  tlic  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  land  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 


FA- 


Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear  ;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea  ; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared,  — 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim -band  : 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ?  — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ; 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found,  - 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

FELICIA  HEMANS. 


THE  FREEMAN. 

FROM    "THE  WINTER   MORNING   WALK." 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.     There  's  not  a  chain 
That  hellish  foes  confederate  for  his  harm 
Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature  ;  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight, 
Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valley  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers.     His  to  enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 


-u- 


~S> 


462 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


-ft 


Can  lift  to  heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye, 

And  smiling  say,  ' '  My  Father  made  them  all  !  " 

Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 

And  by  an  emphasis  of  interest  his, 

Whose  eyes  they  till  with  tears  of  holy  joy, 

Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 

With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love 

That  planned  and  built,  and  still  upholds,  a  world 

So  clothed  with  beauty  for  rebellious  man  ? 

Yes,  ve  may  fill  your  garners,  }'e  that  reap 

The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 

In  senseless  riot  ;  but  ye  will  not  find 

In  feast,  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 

A  liberty  like  his,  who,  unimpeached 

Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong, 

Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work, 

And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours  than  you. 

He  is  indeed  a  freeman.     Free  by  birth 

Of  no  mean  city,  planned  or  e'er  the  hills 

Were  built,  the  fountains  opened,  or  the  sea 

With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 

His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every  state  ; 

And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 

So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  every  day 

Bring  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less. 

For  he  has  wings  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 

Nor  penury  can  cripple  or  confine  ; 

No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads  them  there 

With  ease,  and  is  at  large.     The  oppressor  holds 

His  body  bound  ;  but  knows  not  what  a  range 

His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a  chain  ; 

And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt, 

Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in  whom  he  dwells. 

William  Cowper. 


SLAVERY. 


FROM    "THE    TIMEPIECE." 


0  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more  !    My  ear  is  pained, 
My  soul  is  sick,  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  mi  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart ; 
It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax, 
Thru  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  colored  like  his  own,  and,  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 


Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 

Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ; 

And,  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 

As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 

Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 

With  stripes,  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 

Weeps,  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 

Then  wdiat  is  man  ?    And  what  man,  seeing  this, 

And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush, 

And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 

I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 

To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 

That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 

No  ;  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 

Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 

I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave, 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 

We  have  no  slaves  at  home.  —  Then  why  abroad  ? 

And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 

That  parts  us  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 

Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  if  their  lungs 

Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 

They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 

That 's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 

And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 

And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 

Of  all  your  empire  ;  that,  where  Britain's  power 

Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

William  Cowper. 


BATTLE-HYMN   OF  THE   REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of 
the  Lord  : 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes 
of  wrath  are  stored  ; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terri- 
ble swift  sword. 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred 

circling  camps  ; 
They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening 

dews  and  damps  ; 
I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 

flaring  lamps. 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows 

of  steel  : 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you 

my  grace  shall  deal  ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent 

with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 


# 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


4G3 


ft 


He   has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall 

never  call  retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  hefore  his 

judgment-seat : 
0,  he  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him  !  be  jubilant 

my  feet  ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across 

the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you 

and  me  ; 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make 

men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 


LAUS   DEO ! 

[On  hearing  the  bells  ring  on  the  passage  of  the  Constitutional 
Amendment  abolishing  slavery.] 

It  is  done ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 

Ring,  0  bells  ! 

Every  stroke  exulting  tells 
Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 

Ring  for  every  listening  ear 
Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel  : 

God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 
And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 

That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 
That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  I 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  ; 
In  the  earthquake  he  has  spoken  ; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song; 

with  Miriam  by  the 
He  has  casl  the  mighty  down  ; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown  ; 
He  has  triumphed  gloriously  I 

Did  we  dare , 
In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  lias  done  ? 


When  was  ever  his  right  hand 
Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  ! 

Blotted  out  ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin. 

It  is  clone  ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

Ring  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy  !     On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains, 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God  ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


GREECE. 


FROM    "CHILDE    HAROLD. 


Fair  Greece  !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 
Immortal,  though  no   more  ;    though   fallen, 

great  ! 
Who  now  shall   lead   thy  scattered  children 

forth, 
And  long-accustomed  bondage  uncreate  ? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait,  — 
0,  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from 

the  tomb  ? 

Spirit  of  Freedom  !  when  on  Phyle's  brow 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train. 
Couldst  thou  forbode  the  dismal  hour  which 

now 
Dims  thr  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain  ? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land  ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 


-ff 


a- 


464 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM   AND   FREEDOM. 


^ 


Trembling  beneath   the  scourge   of  Turkish 
hand, 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved  ;  in  word,  in  deed, 
unmanned. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed  !  and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye, 
Who   but  would  deem  their   bosoms  burned 

anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty  ! 
And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage  ; 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage, 
Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mourn- 
ful page. 

Hereditary  bondsmen  !  know  ye  not 

Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the 

blow  ? 
By  their  right  arms  the   conquest  must  be 

wrought  ? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ?  no  ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low, 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  !  triumph  o'er  your  foe  ! 
Greece  !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the 

same  ; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of 

shame  !  byron. 


<h 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  POET. 

FROM    "DON  JUAN." 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung,  — 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace,  — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung  ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet ; 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse  ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  farther  west 

Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea  ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free  ; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis  ; 


And  ships  by  thousands  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations,  ■ —  all  were  his  ? 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day,  — 
And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 

And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now,  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'T  is  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face  ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush,  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?  —  our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred,  grant  but  three 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae  ! 

What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  no  !  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one,  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come  !  " 
'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain,  —  in  vain  ;  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal  ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave,  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these  ! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  ; 

He  served,  but  served  Polycrates,  — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend  ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

0  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM  AND   FREEDOM. 


-a 


465 


Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there  perhaps  some  seed  is  sown 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks,  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  ; 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade,  — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine  ; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine,  — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 

BYRON. 


0  THE   PLEASANT  DAYS   OF  OLD  ! 

0  THE  pleasant  days  of  old,  which  so  often  peo- 
ple praise  ! 

True,  they  wanted  all  the  luxuries  that  grace  our 
modern  days  : 

Bare  floors  were  strewed  with  rushes,  the  walls 
let  in  the  cold  ; 

0,  how  they  must  have  shivered  in  those  pleasant 
days  of  old  ! 

0  those  ancient  lords  of  old,  how  magnificent 

tli")-  were  I 
They   threw   down  and  imprisoned  kings,  —  to 

thwart  them  who  might  dare  ? 
They  ruled  their  Berfa  right  sternly  ;  they  took 

from  Jews  their  gold,  — 
Above  both  law  and  equity  were  those  great  lords 

of  old  ! 

0  the  gallant  knights  of  old,  for  their  valor  so 

renowned  I 
With  sword  and  lance  and  armor  strong  they 

scouivd  the  country  round  ; 


And  whenever  aught  to  tempt  them  they  met  by 

wood  or  wold, 
By  right  of  sword  they  seized  the  prize,  —  those 

gallant  knights  of  old  ! 

0  the  gentle  dames  of  old  !  who,  quite  free  from 

fear  or  pain, 
Could  gaze  on  joust   and  tournament,  and  see 

their  champions  slain  ; 
They  lived  on  good  beefsteaks   and  ale,  which 

made  them  strong  and  bold,  — 
0,  more  like  men  than  women  were  those  gentle 

dames  of  old  ! 

0  those  mighty  towers  of  old  !  with  their  turrets, 

moat,  and  keep, 
Their  battlements  and  bastions,  their  dungeons 

dark  and  deep. 
Full  many  a  baron  held  his  court  within  the 

castle  hold  ; 
And  many  a  captive  languished  there,  in  those 

strong  towers  of  old. 

0  the  troubadours  of  old  !  with  the  gentle  min- 
strelsie 

Of  hope  and  joy,  or  deep  despair,  whiche'er  their 
lot  might  be  ; 

For  years  they  served  their  ladye-love  ere  they 
their  passions  told,  — 

0,  wondrous  patience  must  have  had  those  trou- 
badours of  old  ! 

0  those  blessed  times  of  old,  with  their  chivalry 

and  state  ! 

1  love  to  read  their  chronicles,  which  such  brave 

deeds  relate  ; 
I  love  to  sing  their  ancient  rhymes,  to  hear  their 

legends  told,  — 
But,   Heaven  be  thanked  !  I  live  not  in  those 

blessed  times  of  old  ! 

FRANCES  BROWN. 


THE   REFORMER. 

All  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church  beneath  her  trembling  domo 

Essnyed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
"With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  : 
Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 


±± 


S3 


4G6 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 


ft 


"Spare,"  Art  implored,  "yon  holy  pile  ; 

That  grand  old  time-worn  turret  spare  "  : 
Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "Forbear!" 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold,  — 

"  Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 

"The  fair,  the  old?" 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam  ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled,  — 

The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too  ; 
Up  springing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad,  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still, 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared  ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away, 
And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 

O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow  ; 
The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 

And  cottage  windows,  flower-intwined, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed, 


And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 

The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 


Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven 
The  best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone,  — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day  ; 
And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

0  backward-looking  son  of  time  ! 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer  ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turn  Earth's  love  and  fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

Idly  as  thou,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sire  repine  ; 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

But  life  shall  on  and  upward  go  ; 

Tli'  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 

To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 

Which  God  repeats. 

Take  heart !  —  the  Waster  builds  again,  — 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath  ; 
The  tares  may  perish,  —  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Wake  thou  and  watch  ! — the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light  ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER, 


& 


a- 


a 


POEMS   OF  THE  SEA 


m~ 


& 


■a 


POEMS   OF  THE  SEA. 


THE  SEA. 


FROM        CHILDE   HAROLD. 


There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes 
1 '. v  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar  : 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  hut  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  he,  or  have  heen  hefore, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
"What  i  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  ■ — roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Alan  marks  the  earth  with  ruin,  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage  save  his  own, 
When,  tor  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  un- 
known. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  — thy  fields 
Air  nut  ;i  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he 

Wields 

Fur  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spuming  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  Ids  gods,  where  haply  lies 
Hi-  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
Ami  dashest  him  again  to  earth  :  —  there  let  him 
lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 

Of  rock-buiH  cities,   bidding  nations  quake 

And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
of  lord  of  thee  and  arbiter  of  war,  — 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  Hake, 

They  mell  int..  thy  yeasl  of  waxes,  which  mar 
Alike  i  he  Armada'.-  pride  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 


Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save 

thee  ; 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters   washed  them  power  while   they 

were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :    not  so  thou  ; 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play, 
Time  writes  no  wrinkles  on  thine  azure  brow  ; 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now'. 

Thou   glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's 

form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed,  —  in   breeze,    or  gale,  or 

storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark  -  heaving  ;  boundless,  endless,  and  sub- 
lime, 
The  image  of  Eternity,  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  !  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless, 
alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  lie 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  ;  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers, — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight  ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear  ; 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane,  —  as  I  do  here. 

BYRON. 


THE   SEA. 

Til  E  sea,  thi'  sea,  the  open  sea, 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ; 

Without  ii  mark,  without  a  hound. 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round; 


-~ ff 


a 


470 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


■ft 


It  plays  with  the  clouds,  it  mocks  the  skies, 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I  'm  on  the  sea,  I  'in  on  the  sea, 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be, 

With  the  blue  above  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

"What  matter?     I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  0,  how  I  love  to  ride 

On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 

Where  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 

And  whistles  aloft  its  tempest  tune, 

And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 

And  why  the  southwest  wind  doth  blow  ! 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore 

But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 

And  backward  ilew  to  her  billowy  breast, 

Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  her  mother's  nest,  — 

And  a  mother  she  was  and  is  to  me, 

For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea. 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 

The  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold  ; 

And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild, 

As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child. 

I  have  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 

Full  fifty  summers  a  rover's  life, 

With  wealth  to  spend,  and  a  power  to  range, 

But  never  have  sought  or  sighed  for  change  : 

And  death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 

Shall  come  on  the  wide,  unbounded  sea  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


A   HYMN   OF   THE   SEA. 

The  sea  is  might}7,  but  a  mightier  sways 
His  restless  billows.     Thou,  whose  hands  have 

scooped 
His  boundless  gulfs   and   built   his   shore,  thy 

breath, 
That  moved  in  the  beginning  o'er  his  face, 
Moves  o'er  it  evermore.     The  obedient  waves 
To  its  strong  motion  roll,  and  rise  and  fall. 
Still  from  that  realm  of  rain  thy  cloud  goes  up, 
As  at  the  first,  to  water  the  great  earth, 
And  keep  her  valleys  green.     A  hundred  realms 
Watch  its  broad  shadow  warping  on  the  wind, 
And  in  the  dropping  shower  with  gladness  hear 
Thy  promise  of  tin-  harvest.     I  look  forth 
Over  the  boundless  blue,  where  joyously 
The  bright  crests  of  innumerable  waves 
Glance  to  the  sun  at  once,  as  when  the  hands 
Of  a  great  multitude  are  upward  Hung 


In  acclamation.     I  behold  the  ships' 

Gliding  from  cape  to  cape,  from  isle  to  isle, 

Or   stemming   toward   far   lands,    or   hastening 

home 
From  the  Old  World.     It  is  thy  friendly  breeze 
That  bears  them,  with  the  riches  of  the  land, 
And  treasure  of  dear  lives,  till,  in  the  port, 
The  shouting  seaman  climbs  and  furls  the  sail. 

But  who  shall   bide  thy  tempest,  who   shall 

face 
The  blast  that  wakes  the  fury  of  the  sea  ? 
0  God  !  thy  justice  makes  the  world  turn  pale, 
When  on  the  armed  fleet,  that  royally 
Bears  down  the  surges,  carrying  war,  to  smite 
Some  city  or  invade  some  thoughtless  realm, 
Descends  the  fierce  tornado.     The  vast  hulks 
Are  whirled  like    chaff  upon   the   waves  ;    the 

sails 
Fly,  rent  like  webs  of  gossamer  ;  the  masts 
Are  snapped  asunder  ;  downward  from  the  decks 
Downward  are  slung,  into  the  fathomless  gulf, 
Their  cruel  engines  ;  and  their  hosts,  arrayed 
In  trappings  of  the  battle-field,  are  whelmed 
By  whirlpools  or  dashed  dead  upon  the  rocks. 
Then   stand   the   nations    still   with   awe,    and 

pause 
A  moment  from  the  bloody  work  of  war. 

These  restless  surges  eat  away  the  shores 
Of  earth's  old  continents  ;  the  fertile  plain 
Welters  in  shallows,  headlands  crumble  down, 
And  the  tide  drifts  the  sea-sand  in  the  streets 
Of  the  drowned  city.     Thou,  meanwhile,  afar 
In  the  green  chambers  of  the  middle  sea, 
Where  broadest  spread  the  waters  and  the  line 
Sinks  deepest,  while  no  eye  beholds  thy  work, 
Creator !  thou  dost  teach  the  coral  worm 
To  lay  his  mighty  reefs.     From  age  to  age, 
He  builds  beneath  the  waters,  till,  at  last, 
His  bulwarks  overtop  the  brine,  and  check 
The  long  wave  rolling  from  the  southern  pole 
To  break  upon  Japan.     Thou  bid'st  the  lires, 
That  smoulder  under  ocean,  heave  on  high 
The  new-made  mountains,  and  uplift  their  peaks, 
A  place  of  refuge  for  the  storm-driven  bird. 
The  birds  and  wafting  billows  plant  the  rifts 
With    herb   and   tree ;    sweet   fountains   gush  ; 

sweet  airs 
Ripple  the  living  lakes  that,  fringed  with  flow- 
ers, 
Are  gathered  in  the  hollows.     Thou  dost  look 
On  thy  creation  and  pronounce  it  good. 
Its  valleys,  glorious  with  their  summer  green, 
Praise  thee  in  silent  beauty  ;  and  its  woods 
Swept  by  the  murmuring  winds  of  ocean,  join 

The  murmuring  shores  in  a  perpetual  hymn. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


{&~ 


w 


-&- 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


471 


ft 


THE   SEA. 

Beautiful,  sublime,  and  glorious  ; 

Mild,  majestic,  foaming,  free,  — 
Over  time  itself  victorious, 

Image  of  eternity  ! 

Sun  and  moon  and  stars  shine  o'er  thee, 

See  thy  surface  ebb  and  flow, 
Yet  attempt  not  to  explore  thee 

In  thy  soundless  depths  below. 

Whether  morning's  splendors  steep  thee 
With  the  rainbow's  glowing  grace, 

Tempests  rouse,  or  navies  sweep  thee, 
'T  is  but  for  a  moment's  space. 

Earth,  —  her  valleys  and  her  mountains, 

Mortal  man's  behests  obey  ; 
The  unfathomable  fountains 

Scoff  his  search  and  scorn  his  sway. 

Such  art  thou,  stupendous  ocean  ! 

But,  if  overwhelmed  by  thee, 

Can  we  think,  without  emotion, 

What  must  thy  Creator  be  ? 

Bernard  Barton. 


THE   OCEAN. 

[Written  at  Scarborough,  in  the  summer  of  1805.] 

All  hail  to  the  ruins,  the  rocks,  and  the  shores  ! 

Thou  wide-rolling  Ocean,  all  hail  ! 

Now  brilliant  with  sunbeams  and  dimpled  with 

oars, 
Now  dark  with  the  fresh-blowing  gale, 
While  soft  o'er  thy  bosom  the  cloud-shadows  sail, 
And  the  silver-winged  sea-fowl  on  high, 
Like  meteors  bespangle  the  sky, 
•  )r  dive  in  the  gulf,  or  triumphantly  ride, 
Like  foam  on  the  surges,  the  swans  of  the  tide. 

From  the  tumult  and  smoke  of  the  city  set  free, 
Willi  eager  and  awful  delight, 

From  il resl  of  the  mountain  I  gaze  upon  thee, 

I  gaze,      and  am  changed  al  tin'  sighl  ; 
for  mine  eye  is  illumined,  my  genius  takes  flight, 
My  soul,  like  the  sun,  with  a  glance 
Embraces  the  boundless  expan  -<■, 
Ami  moves  on  thy  waters,  wherever  they  roll, 
From  the  day-darting  zone  to  the  night-shadowed 
pole. 

My  spirit  descends  where  the  day-spring  is  born, 
Where  the  billows  are  rubies  on  fire, 
And  the  breezes  thai  rock  the  light  cradle  of  morn 
Arc  sweet  as  the  Phoenix's  pyre, 

0  regions  of  beauty,  of  love  and  desire  ! 


0  gardens  of  Eden  !  in  vain 

Placed  far  on  the  fathomless  main, 

Where  Nature  with  Innocence  dwelt  in  her  youth, 

When  pure  was  her  heart  and  unbroken  her  truth. 

But  now  the  fair  rivers  of  Paradise  wind 
Through  countries  and  kingdoms  o'erthrown  ; 
Where  the  giant  of  tyranny  crushes  mankind, 
Where  he  reigns,  —  and  will  soon  reign  alone  ; 
Forwide  and  more  wide,  o'er  the  sunbeaming  zone 
He  stretches  his  hundred-fold  arms, 
Despoiling,  destroying  its  charms  ; 
Beneath  his  broad  footstep  the  Ganges  is  dry, 
And  the  mountains  recoil  from  the  flash  of  his  eye. 

Thus  the  pestilent  Upas,  the  demon  of  trees, 
Its  boughs  o'er  the  wilderness  spreads, 
And  with  livid  contagion  polluting  the  breeze, 
Its  mildewing  influence  sheds  ; 
The  birds  on  the  wing,  and  the  flowers  in  their  beds, 
Are  slain  by  its  venomous  breath, 
That  darkens  the  noonday  with  death, 
And  pale  ghosts  of  travellers  wander  around, 
While  their  mouldering   skeletons  whiten   the 
ground. 

Ah  !  why  hath  Jehovah,  in  forming  the  world, 

With  the  waters  divided  the  land, 

His  ramparts  of  rocks  round  the  continent  hurled, 

And  cradled  the  deep  in  his  hand, 

If  man  may  transgress  his  eternal  command, 

And  leap  o'er  the  bounds  of  his  birth, 

To  ravage  the  uttermost  earth, 

And  violate  nations  and  realms  that  should  be 

Distinct  as  the  billows,  yet  one  as  the  sea  ? 

There  are,  gloomy  Ocean,  a  brotherless  clan, 

Who  traverse  thy  banishing  waves, 

The  poor  disinherited  outcasts  of  man, 

Whom  Avarice  coins  into  slaves. 

From  the  homes  of  their  kindred,  their  fore- 
fathers' graves, 

Love,  friendship,  and  conjugal  bliss, 

They  are  dragged  on  the  hoary  abyss  ; 

The  shark  heais  their  shrieks,  and,  ascending  to- 
day, 

Demands  of  the  spoiler  his  share  of  the  prey. 

Then  joy  to  the  tent)  ies1  that  whelms  them  beneath, 

And  makes  their  destruction  its  sport  ; 

But  woe  to  the  winds  thai  propitiously  breathe. 

And  wait  them  in  safety  to  port, 

Where  the   vultures  and   vampires  of  Mammon 

resort    ; 

Where  Europe  exultingly  drains 

The  life-blood  from  Africa's  veins  ; 

Where  man  rules  o'er  man  with  a  merciless  rod, 

And  spurns  at  his  footstool  the  image  of  God  ! 


<&-■ 


# 


fl- 


47:2 


TOEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


The  hour  is  approaching,  —  a  terrible  hour  ! 
And  Vengeance  is  bending  her  bow  ; 
Already  the  clouds  of  the  hurricane  lower, 
And  the  rock-rending  whirlwinds  blow  ; 
Back  rolls  the  huge  Ocean,  hell  opens  below  ; 
The  floods  return  headlong,  —  they  sweep 
The  slave-cultured  lands  to  the  deep, 
In  a  moment  entombed  in  the  horrible  void, 
By  their  Maker  himself  in  his  anger  destroyed. 

Shall  this  be  the  fate  of  the  cane-planted  isles, 

More  lovely  than  clouds  in  the  west, 

When  the  sun  o'er  the  ocean  descending  in  smiles, 

Sinks  softly  and  sweetly  to  rest  ? 

No  !  —  Father  of  mercy  !  befriend  the  opprest ; 

At  the  voice  of  thy  gospel  of  peace 

May  the  sorrows  of  Africa  cease  ; 

And  slave  and  his  master  devoutly  unite 

To  walk  in  thy  freedom  and  dwell  in  thy  light ! 

As  homeward  my  weary-winged  Fancy  extends 

Her  star-lighted  course  through  the  skies, 

High  over  the  mighty  Atlantic  ascends, 

And  turns  upon  Europe  her  eyes  : 

Ah  me  !  what  new  prospects,  new  horrors  arise  ? 

I  see  the  war-tempested  flood 

All  foaming,  and  panting  with  blood  ; 

The  panic-struck  Ocean  in  agony  roars, 

Rebounds  from  the  battle,  and  flies  to  his  shores. 

For  Britannia  is  wielding  the  trident  to-day, 

Consuming  her  foes  in  her  ire, 

And  hurling  her  thunder  with  absolute  sway 

From  her  wave-ruling  chariots  of  fire. 

She  triumphs  ;  the  winds  and  the  waters  con- 
spire 

To  spread  her  invincible  name  ; 

The  universe  rings  with  her  fame  ; 

But  the  cries  of  the  fatherless  mix  with  her 
praise, 

And  the  tears  of  the  widow  are  shed  on  her  bays. 

0  Britain,  clear  Britain  !  the  land  of  my  birth  ; 
0  Isle  most  enchantingly  fair  ! 
Thou  Pearl  of  the  Ocean  !  thou  Gem  of  the  Earth ! 
0  my  Mother,  my  Mother,  beware, 
For  wealth  is  a  phantom,  and  empire  a  snare  ! 
0,  let  not  thy  birthright  be  sold 
For  reprobate  glory  and  gold  ! 
Thy  distant  dominions  like  wild  graftings  shoot, 
They  weigh  down  thy  trunk,  they  will  tear  up 
thy  root,  — 

The   root   of  thine   oak,  0  my  country !   that 

stands 
Rock-planted  and  flourishing  free  ; 
Lts  branches  are  stretched  o'er  the  uttermost  lands, 
And  its  shadow  eclipses  the  sea. 


The  blood  of  our  ancestors  nourished  the  tree  ; 
From  their  tombs,  from  their  ashes,  it  sprung  ; 
Its  boughs  with  their  trophies  are  hung  ; 
Their   spirit   dwells  in  it,    and  —  hark !    for  it 

spoke, 
The  voice  of  our  fathers  ascends  from  their  oak. 

"Ye  Britons,  who  dwell  where  we  conquered  of 

old, 
Who  inherit  our  battle-field  graves  ; 
Though  poor  were  your  fathers,  —  gigantic  and 

bold, 
We  were  not,  Ave  could  not  be,  slaves  ; 
But  firm  as  our  rocks,  and  as  free  as  our  waves, 
The  spears  of  the  Romans  we  broke, 
We  never  stooped  under  their  yoke. 
In  the  shipwreck  of  nations  we  stood  up  alone,  — 

The  world  was  great  Caesar's,  but  Britain  our  own. 

James  Montgomery. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   OCEAN. 

0  thou  vast  Ocean  !  ever-sounding  Sea  ! 
Thou  symbol  of  a  drear  immensity  ! 

Thou  thing  that  windest  round  the  solid  world 
Like  a  huge  animal,  which,  downward  hurled 
From  the  black  clouds,  lies  weltering  and  alone, 
Lashing  and  writhing  till  its  strength  be  gone  ! 
Thy  voice  is  like  the  thunder,  and  thy  sleep 
Is  as  a  giant's  slumber,  loud  and  deep. 
Thou  speakest  in  the  east  and  in  the  west 
At  once,  and  on  thy  heavily  laden  breast 
Fleets  come  and  go,  and  shapes  that  have  no  life 
Or  motion,  yet  are  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 
The  earth  has  naught  of  this :  no  chance  or  change 
Ruffles  its  surface,  and  no  spirits  dare 
Give  answer  to  the  tempest-wakened  air  ; 
But  o'er  its  wastes  the  weakly  tenants  range 
At  will,  and  wound  its  bosom  as  they  go  : 
Ever  the  same,  it  hath  no  ebb,  no  flow  : 
But  in  their  stated  rounds  the  seasons  come, 
And  pass  like  visions  to  their  wonted  home  ; 
And  come  again,  and  vanish  ;  the  young  Spring 
Looks  ever  bright  with  leaves  and  blossoming  ; 
And  Winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn, 
When  the  wild  Autumn,  with  a  look  forlorn, 
Dies  in  his  stormy  manhood  ;  and  the  skies 
Weep,  and  flowers  sicken,  when  the  summer  flies. 
0,  wonderful  thou  art,  great  element, 
And  fearful  in  thy  spleeny  humors  bent, 
And  lovely  in  repose  !  thy  summer  form 
Is  beautiful,  and  when  thy  silver  waves 
Make  music  in  earth's  dark  and  winding  caves, 

1  love  to  wander  on  thy  pebbled  beach, 

Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour, 

And  hearken  to  the  thoughts  thy  waters  teach,  — 

Eternity  —  Eternity  —  and  Power. 

Barry  Cornwall. 


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POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


473 


HAMPTON   BEACH. 

The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

"Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of  sandy 
gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  sea  ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for  miles 
around. 

On  —  on  —  we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 
Our  seaward  way,- 


Through 


dark-green   fields 


and   blossoming 


grain, 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering  locust 
spray. 

Ha !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow, 
The  breath  of  a  new  life,  —  the  healing  of  the 
seas ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 
In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds   with 
cool  spray  wet. 

Good  by  to  pain  and  care  !     I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day; 
Here,  where  the  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  1  shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary  thoughts 
away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath  —  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see  — 
Waves  in  the  sun  —  the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam  — 
And  fer-off  sails  which  Hit  before  the  south-wind 
free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weighl  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the  vastness 


grow. 


And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing,  — 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream, 
The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new  life 
stealing. 

Serene  and  mild,  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning  ; 
And,  as  in  summer's  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul's 


I  sit  alone  ;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 
Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray, 
Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through  mossy 
cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on   bluer  waves 
shuts  down  ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 
The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind  ; 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with   them  rise 
and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer  !  —  wave  and  shore 

In  shadow  lie  ; 
The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing  sunset 
sky  ! 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell  ! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 

But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 

Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by  the 

sea. 

John  greenleaf  whittier. 


SEA-WEED. 

WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  sea-weed  from  the  rocks: 


I5- 


# 


a- 


474 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


a 


From  Bermuda's  reefs  ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-oif,  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador  ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas  ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  erelong, 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song  : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth  ; 

From  the  strong  "Will,  and  the  Endeavor 

That  forever 
Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate  ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 

Household  words,  no  more  depart. 

Henry  wadsworth  Longfellow. 


GULF-WEED. 

A  WEARY  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro, 
Drearily  drenched  in  the  ocean  brine, 

Soaring  high  and  sinking  low, 

Lashed  along  without  will  of  mine  ; 


Sport  of  the  spume  of  the  surging  sea  ; 

Flung  on  the  foam,  afar  and  anear, 
Mark  my  manifold  mystery,  — 

Growth  and  grace  in  their  place  appear. 

I  bear  round  berries,  gray  and  red, 

Rootless  and  rover  though  I  be  ; 
My  spangled  leaves,  when  nicely  spread, 

Arboresce  as  a  trunkless  tree  ; 
Corals  curious  coat  me  o'er, 

White  and  hard  in  apt  array  ; 
Mid  the  wild  waves'  rude  uproar 

Gracefully  grow  I,  night  and  day. 

Hearts  there  are  on  the  sounding  shore, 
Something  whispers  soft  to  me, 

Restless  and  roaming  forevermore, 
Like  this  weary  weed  of  the  sea  ; 

Bear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 
The  eternal  type  of  the  wondrous  whole, 

Growth  unfolding  amidst  unrest, 

Grace  informing  with  silent  soul. 

Cornelius  George  Fenner. 


SEA  LIFE. 


'the  pelican  island. 


Light  as  a  flake  of  foam  upon  the  wind 
Keel-upward  from  the  deep  emerged  a  shell, 
Shaped  like  the  moon  ere  half  her  horn  is  filled  : 
Fraught  with  young  life,  it  righted  as  it  rose, 
And  moved  at  will  along  the  yielding  water. 
The  native  pilot  of  this  little  bark 
Put  out  a  tier  of  oars  on  either  side, 
Spread  to  the  wafting  breeze  a  twofold  sail, 
And  mounted  up  and  glided  down  the  billow 
In  happy  freedom,  pleased  to  feel  the  air, 
And  wander  in  the  luxury  of  light. 
Worth  all  the  dead  creation,  in  that  hour, 
To  me  appeared  this  lonely  Nautilus, 
My  fellow-being,  like  myself,  alive. 
Entranced  in  contemplation,  vague  yet  sweet, 
I  watched  its  vagrant  course  and  rippling  wake, 
Till  I  forgot  the  sun  amidst  the  heavens. 

It  closed,  sunk,  d  win  tiled   to  a  point,    then 
nothing  ; 
While  the  last  bubble  crowned  the  dimpling  eddy, 
Through  which  mine  eyes  still  giddily  pursued  it, 
A  joyous  creature  vaulted  through  the  air,  — 
The  aspiring  fish  that  fain  would  be  a  bird, 
On   long,  light  wings,  that   flung  a   diamond- 
shower 
Of  dew-drops  round  its  evanescent  form, 
Sprang  into  light,  and  instantly  descended. 
Ere  I  could  greet  the  stranger  as  a  friend, 
Or  moxirn  his  quick  departure  on  the  surge, 


't& 


W 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


475 


ft 


A  shoal  of  dolphins  tumbling  in  wild  glee, 
Glowed  with  such  orient  tints,  they  might  have 

been 
The  rainbow's  offspring,  when  it  met  the  ocean 
In  that  resplendent  vision  I  had  seen. 
While  yet  in  ecstasy,  I  hung  o'er  these, 
With  every  motion  pouring  out  fresh  beauties, 
As  though  the  conscious  colors  came  and  went 
At  pleasure,  glorying  in  their  subtle  changes,  — 
Enormous  o'er  the  flood,  Leviathan 
Looked  forth,  and  from  his  roaring  nostrils  sent 
Two  fountains  to  the  sky,  then  plunged  amain 
In  headlong  pastime  through  the  closing  gulf. 

These  were  but  preludes  to  the  revelry 
That  reigned  at  sunset  :  then  the  deep  let  loose 
Its  blithe  adventurers  to  sport  at  large, 
As  kindly  instinct  taught  them ;  buoyant  shells, 
On  stormless  voyages,  in  fleets  or  single, 
Wherried  their  tiny  mariners  ;  aloof, 
On  wing-like  fins,  in  bow-and-arrow  figures, 
The  flying-fishes  darted  to  and  fro  ; 
While  spouting  whales  projected  watery  columns, 
That  turned  to  arches  at  their  height,  and  seemed 
The  skeletons  of  crystal  palaces 
Built  on  the  blue  expanse,  then  perishing, 
Frail  as  the  element  which  they  were  made  of : 
Dolphins,  in  gambols,  lent  the  lucid  brine 
Hues  richer  than  the  canopy,  of  eve, 
That  overhung  the  scene  with  gorgeous  clouds, 
Decaying  into  gloom  more  beautiful 
Than  the  sun's  golden  liveries  which  they  lost : 
Till  light  that  hides,  and  darkness  that  reveals 
The  stars,  —  exchanging  guard,  like  sentinels 
Of  day   and   night,  —  transformed   the  face   of 

nature  ; 
Above  was  wakefulness,  silence  around, 
Beneath,  repose,  —  repose  that  reached  even  me. 
Power,  will,  sensation,  memory,  failed  in  turn  ; 
My  very  essence  seemed  to  pass  away, 
Like  a  thin  cloud  that  melts  across  the  moon, 
Lost  in  the  blue  immensity  of  heaven. 

James  Montgomery. 


THE   CORAL   INSECT. 

Toil  on  !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train, 
Who  build  in  the  tossing  and  treacherous  main  ; 
Toil  on  !  for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock, 
With  your  sand-based  structures  and  domes  of 

rock , 
Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains'  cave, 
And  your  arches  Bpring  up  to  the  crested  wave; 
Ye  're  a  puny  race  thus  to  boldly  rear 
A  fabric  so  vast  in  a  realm  bo  drear. 

Ye  hind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone,  — 
The  ocean  is  scaled,  and  the  surge  a  stone, 


Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavement  spring, 

Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king  ; 

The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  rolled  ; 

O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold  ; 

The  sea-snatched  isle  is  the  home  of  men, 

And  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant,  'neath  the  billows  dark, 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark  ? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field, 
Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the  valleys  yield  ; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil  ere  the  flowers  are  up, 
There  's  a  poison  drop  in  man's  purest  cup, 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle  breath, 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  death  ? 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright  ; 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold, 
And  the  gods  of  the  ocean  have  frowned  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  in  their  halls  of  glee  ; 
Hath  earth  no  graves,  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  sea  for  the  thronging  dead  ? 

Ye  build  —  ye  build  —  but  ye  enter  not  in, 
Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devoured  in  their 

sin  ; 
From  the  land  of  promise  ye  fade  and  die 
Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  weary  eye  ; 
As  the  kings  of  the  cloud-crowned  pyramid, 
Their  noiseless  bones  in  oblivion  hid, 
Ye  slumber  unmarked  mid  the  desolate  main, 
While  the  wonderand  pride  of  your  works  remain. 

LVDIA  H.  SlGOURNEY. 


THE   CORAL   INSECT. 

FROM    "THE    PELICAN    ISLAND." 

....  Every  one, 
By  instinct  taught,  performed  its  little  task,  — 
To  build  its  dwelling  and  its  sepulchre, 
From  its  own  essence  exquisitely  modelled  ; 
There  breed,  and  die,  and  leave  a  progeny, 
Still  multiplied  beyond  the  reach  of  numbers, 
To  frame  new  cells  and  tombs,  then  breed  and  die 
As  all  their  ancestors  had  done,  —  and  rest, 
Hermetically  sealed,  each  in  its  shrine, 
A  statue  in  this  temple  of  oblivion  ! 
Millions  of  millions  thus,  from  age  to  age, 
With  simplest  skill  and  toil  unweariable, 
No  moment  and  no  movement  unimproved, 
Laid  line  on  line,  on  terrace  terrace  spread, 
To  swell  the  heightening,  brightening,  gradual 

mound, 
By  marvellous  structure  climbing  tow:ards  the  day. 


Q- 


-ff 


t& 


476 


POEMS   OF   THE  SEA. 


A  point  at  first 
It  peered  above  those  waves  ;  a  point  so  small 
I  just  perceived  it,  fixed  where  all  was  floating  ; 
And  when  a  bubble  crossed  it,  the  blue  film 
Expanded  like  a  sky  above  the  speck  ; 
That  speck  became  ahand-breadth  ;  day  and  night 
It  spread,  accumulated,  and  erelong 
Presented  to  my  view  a  dazzling  plain, 
White  as  the  moon  amid  the  sapphire  sea  ; 
Bare  at  low  water,  and  as  still  as  death, 
But  when  the  tide  came  gurgling  o'er  the  surface 
'T  was  like  a  resurrection  of  the  dead  : 
From  graves  innumerable,  punctures  fine 
In  the  close  coral,  capillary  swarms 
Covered  the  bald-pate  reef  ; 

Erelong  the  reef  o'ertopt  the  spring-flood's  height, 
And  mocked  the  billows  when  they  leapt  upon  it, 
Unable  to  maintain  their  slippery  hold, 
And  falling  down  in  foam-wreaths  round  its  verge. 
Steep  were  the  flanks,  with  precipices  sharp, 
Descending  to  their  base  in  ocean  gloom. 
Chasms  few  and  narrow  and  irregular 
Formed  harbors,  safe  at  once  and  perilous,  — 
Safe  for  defence,  but  perilous  to  enter. 
A  sea-lake  shone  amidst  the  fossil  isle, 
Reflecting  in  a  ring  its  cliffs  and  caverns, 
With  heaven  itself  seen  like  a  lake  below. 

Compared  with  this  amazing  edifice, 
Raised  by  the  weakest  creatures  in  existence, 
What  are  the  works  of  intellectual  man  ? 
Towers,  temples,  palaces,  and  sepulchres  ; 
Ideal  images  in  sculptured  forms, 
Thoughtshewn  in  columns,  or  in  domes  expanded, 
Fancies  through  every  maze  of  beauty  shown  ; 
Pride,  gratitude,  affection  turned  to  marble, 
In  honor  of  the  living  or  the  dead  ; 
What  are  they  ?  —  fine-wrought  miniatures  of  art, 
Too  exquisite  to  bear  the  weight  of  dew, 
"Which  every  morn  lets  fall  in  pearls  upon  them, 
Till  all  their  pomp  sinks  down  in  moulderingrelics, 
Yet  in  their  ruin  lovelier  than  their  prime  !  — 
Dust  in  the  balance,  atoms  in  the  gale, 
Compared  with  these  achievements  in  the  deep, 
Were  all  the  monuments  of  olden  time, 
In  days  when  there  were  giants  on  the  earth.  — 
Babel's  stupendous  folly,  though  it  aimed 
To  scale  heaven's  battlements,  was  but  a  toy, 
The  plaything  of  the  world  in  infancy  ; 
The  ramparts,  towers,  and  gates  of  Babylon, 
Built  for  eternity,  —  though,  where  they  stood, 
Ruin  itself  stands  still  for  lack  of  work, 
And  Desolation  keeps  unbroken  Sabbath  ; 
Great  Babylon,  in  its  full  moon  of  empire, 
Even  when  its  "head  of  gold"  was  smitten  off 
And  from  a  monarch  changed  into  a  brute  — 
Great  Babylon  was  like  a  wreath  of  sand, 


Left  by  one  tide  and  cancelled  by  the  next  ; 
Egypt's  dread  wonders,  still  defying  Time, 
Where  cities  have  been  crumbled  into  sand, 
Scattered  by  winds  beyond  the  Libyan  desert, 
Or  melted  down  into  the  mud  of  Nile, 
And  cast  in  tillage  o'er  the  corn-sown  fields, 
Where  Memphis  flourished,  and  the  Pharaohs 

reigned  ; 
Egypt-'3  gray  piles  of  hieroglyphic  grande.ur, 
That  have  survived  the  language  which  they  speak, 
Preserving  its  deed  emblems  to  the  eye, 
Yet  hiding  from  the  mind  what  these  reveal ;  — 
Her  pyramids  would  be  mere  pinnacles, 
Her  giant  statues,  wrought  from  rocks  of  granite 
But  puny  ornaments  for  such  a  pile 
As  this  stupendous  mound  of  catacombs, 
Filled  with  dry  mummies  of  the  builder-worms. 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


THE  CORAL   GROVE. 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 
Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove  ; 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl-shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow  ; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow  ; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 
For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air. 
There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 
The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter. 
There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 
The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear,  deep  sea  ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea. 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 
Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own. 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 
Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore, 
Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 

James  Gates  Percival. 


eg— 


-ff 


COAST    SCENE. 


"  What  hid'st  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells. 
Thou  hol'owsoundinz  and  mysterious  main  !  " 


a 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


477 


THE   TREASURES   OF   THE   DEEP. 

"What  hid'st  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells  ? 
Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysteriousmain  !  — 
Pale  glistening  pearls  and  rainbow-colored  shells, 
Bright  things  which  gleam  unrecked  of  and 
in  vain  !  — 
Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea  ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more  !  —  what  wealth 
untold, 
Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  stillness 
lies  ! 
Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold, 
Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  argosies  !  — 
Sweepo'erthyspoils,  thoa  wild  and  wrathful  main  ! 
Earth  claims  not  tluse  again. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more  !  —  thy  waves 
have  rolled 
Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by  ! 
Sand  hath  filled  up  the  palaces  of  old, 

Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry.  — 
Dash  o'er  them,  Ocean,  in  thy  scornful  play  ! 
Man  yields  them  to  decay. 

Yet  more,  the  billows  and  the  depths  have  more  ! 

High  hearts  and  brave  are  gathered  to  thy  breast ! 
They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar, 

The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest.  — 
Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave  ! 
Give  back  the  true  and  brave  ! 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely  ! —  those  for  whom 

The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long! 

The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breathless 

gloom, 

And  the  vain  yearning  woke  midst  festal  song  ! 

Hold  fast  thy  buried  hies,  thy  towers  o'erthrown, — 

But  all  is  not  thine  own. 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down, 

Dark  flow  thy  tides  o'er  manhood's  noble  head, 
O'er  youth's  bright  locks,  and  beauty's  flowery 
crown  ; 
Ytmustthouheara  voice, — Restore  the  dead  ! 
Earth   shall    reclaim   her  precious  things  from 
thee  !  — 
Restore  the  dead,  thou  sea ! 

Felicia  Hemans. 
4 

TACKING   SHIP   OFF  SHORE. 

Thf,  weather  leach  of  the  topsail  shivers, 

The    bowlines   strain    and    the    lee   shrouds 
Blacken, 
The  braces  are  taut  and  the  lithe  boom  quivers, 
And  tie    waves  with  the  coming  squall-cloud 
blacken. 


Open  one  point  on  the  weather  bow 

Is  the  lighthouse  tall  on  Fire  Island  head ; 

There  's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  captain's  brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel  and  with  eager  eye 
To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  shore  I  gaze, 

Till  the  muttered  order  of  "  Full  and  by  !  " 
Is  suddenly  changed  to  "  Full  for  stays  ! " 

The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze, 

As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she  lays  ; 

And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas 

As  the  pilot  calls  "  Stand  by  for  stays  !  " 

It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place, 

With  the  gathered  coils  in  his  hardened  hands, 

By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace, 
Waiting  the  watchword  impatient  stands. 

And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  head  draws  near, 
As,  trumpet-winged,  the  pilot's  shout 

From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit's  heel  I  hear, 
With  the  welcome  call  of  "  Ready  !  about!" 

No  time  to  spare  !  it  is  touch  and  go, 

And  the  captain  growls  "  Down  helm  !  hard 
down  !" 
As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes  I  throw, 
While  heaven  grows  black   with  the  storm- 
cloud's  frown. 

High  o'er  the  knight-heads  flies  the  spray, 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging  sea  ; 

And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  I  lay, 
As  I  answer,  "Ay,  ay,  sir  !  hard  a  lee!" 

With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed 
The  ship  Hies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 

The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede. 

And  the  headland  white  we  have  left  behind. 

The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse 

And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats  ; 

The  spanker  slaps  and  the  mainsail  Haps, 

And  thunders  the  order,  "TACKS  AND  SHEETS!" 

'Mid  the  rattle. of  blocks  and  the  tramp  of  the 
crew 
Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall  ; 
The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew, 

And    now    is   the   moment  for   "MAINSAIL, 
HAUL!" 

And  the  heavy  yards  like  a  baby's  toy 
By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung  ; 

She  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with  joy 
For  the    first  white  spray  o'er  the  bulwi 


flung. 


3- 


~W 


a- 


478 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


-a 


"  Let  go,  and  haul  !  "  'tis  the  last  command, 
And  the  head-sails  fill  to  the  blast  once  more  ; 

Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 

With  its  breakers  white  on  the  shingly  shore. 

"What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the  squall  ? 

I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea  ; 
The  first-mate  clamors,  Belay  there,  all  !  " 

And  the  captain's  breath  once  more  comes  free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly  ; 

Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow, 

In  my  fo'castle-bunk  in  a  jacket  dry,  — 

Eight  bells  have  struck,  and  my  watch  is  below. 

Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter. 


SONG   OF   THE   EMIGRANTS   IN   BER- 
MUDA. 

"Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 

In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 

From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along 

The  listening  winds  received  this  song  : 

"  What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 

That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 

"Where  he  the  huge  sea  monsters  wracks, 

That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 

Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 

And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 

He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 

Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelate's  rage  ; 

He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 

"Which  here  enamels  everything, 

And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 

On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 

He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 

Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 

And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 

Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows  : 

He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 

And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet  ; 

But  apples,  plants  of  such  a  price, 

No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 

With  cedars  chosen  by  his  hand 

From  Lebanon  he  stores  the  land  ; 

And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 

Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 

He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 

The  gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 

Ami  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 

A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 

0  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt 

Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 

W  hich  then  perhaps  rebounding  may 

Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay  !  "  — 

Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat 

A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  ; 

And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 

With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

Andrew  Marvell. 


A   WET   SHEET   AND  A   FLOWING    SEA. 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea,  — 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  — 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

0  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  — 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free  ; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There  's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud  ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  — 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free ; 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


SONG   OF  THE  ROVER. 

FROM    "  THE  CORSAIR." 

O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless  and  our  souls  as  free, 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home  ! 
These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway,  — 
Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 
Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
0,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave ! 
Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave  : 
Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease  ! 
Whom  slumber  soothes  not, — pleasure  cannot 

please.  — 
0,  who  can  tell  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 
And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
The  exulting  sense,  the  pulse's  maddening  play, 
That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  < 
That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 
And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight  ; 
That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than 

zeal, 
And  where  the  feebler  faint  can  only  feel  — 
Feel  to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 
Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 


£& 


--ff 


a 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


479 


No  dread  of  death  —  if  with  us  die  our  foes  — 
Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose  : 
Come  when  it  will  —  we  snatch  the  life  of  life  — 
"When  lost  —  what  recks  it  —  by  disease  or  strife  ? 
Let  him  who  crawls  enamored  of  decay, 
Cling  to  his  couch  and  sicken  years  away  ; 
Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied 

head  : 
Ours  —  the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 
While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul, 
Ours  with  one  pang  —  one  bound  —  escapes  con- 
trol. 
His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave, 
And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his  grave  : 
Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 
When  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 
For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regrets  supply 
In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory  ; 
And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 
When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey, 
Ami  cry,  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow, 
How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now.' 

BVKON. 


MY  BRIGANTINE. 

Jtjst  in  thy  mould  and  beauteous  in  thy  form, 
Gentle  in  roll  and  buoyant  on  the  surge, 
Light  as  the  sea-fowl  rocking  in  the  storm, 
In  breeze  and  gale  thy  onward  course  we  urge, 

My  water-queen ! 

Lady  of  mine, 
More  light  and  swift  than  thou  none  thread  the 

sea, 
With  surer  keel  or  steadier  on  its  path, 
We  brave  each  waste  of  ocean-mystery 
And  laugh  to  hear  the  howling  tempest's  wrath, 

For  we  are  thine. 

"  My  brigantine  ! 
Trust  to  the  mystic  power  that  points  thy  way, 
Trust  to  the  eye  that  pierces  from  afar  ; 
Trust  the  red  meteors  thai  around  thee  play, 
Ami,  fearless,  fcrusl  the  Sea-Green  Lady's  Star, 

Thou  bark  divine  !  " 

JAMES  FEN1MORE  COOPER. 


-♦ 


ALL'S   WELL. 

FROM    "THE    BRITISH    FLEET." 

Deserted  by  the  waning  moon, 

When  skii-s  proclaim  night's  cheerless  noon, 

On  tower,  or  fort,  or  tented  ground 

The  sentry  walks  his  lonely  round  ; 

And  should  a  footstep  haply  si  ray 

Win).'  .Million  marks  the  guarded  way, 


Who  goes  there  ?     Stranger,  quickly  tell  ; 

A  friend,  —  the  word.     Good  night ;  all 's  well. 

Or  sailing  on  the  midnight  deep, 
When  weary  messmates  soundly  sleep, 
The  careful  watch  patrols  the  deck, 
To  guard  the  ship  from  foes  or  wreck  ; 
And  while  his  thoughts  oft  homewards  veer, 
Some  friendly  voice  salutes  his  ear,  — 
What  cheer  ?  brother,  quickly  tell ; 
Above,  —  below.     Good  night  ;  all 's  well. 

THOMAS  DlBDIN. 


HEAVING   OF   THE   LEAD. 

For  England  when  with  favoring  gale 
Our  gallant  ship  up  channel  steered, 

And,  scudding  under  easy  sail, 

The  high  blue  western  land  appeared  ; 

To  heave  the  lead  the  seaman  sprung, 

And  to  the  pilot  cheerly  sung, 

"  By  the  deep  —  nine  ! " 

And  bearing  up  to  gain  the  port, 

Some  well-known  object  kept  in  view,  — 

An  abbey-tower,  a  harbor-fort, 
Or  beacon  to  the  vessel  true  ; 

While  oft  the  lead  the  seaman  flung, 

And  to  the  pilot  cheerly  sung, 

"  By  the  mark  —  seven  !  " 

And  as  the  much-loved  shore  we  near, 
■With  transport  we  behold  the  roof 

Where  dwelt  a  friend  or  partner  dear, 
Of  faith  and  love  a  matchless  proof. 

The  lead  once  more  the  seaman  flung, 

And  to  the  watchful  pilot  sung, 

"  Quarter  less—  five  !  " 

Now  to  her  berth  the  ship  draws  nigh  : 

We  shorten  sail, — she  feels  the  tide, — 
"Stand  clear  the  cable  "  is  the  cry,  — 
The  anchor's  gone  ;  we  safely  ride. 
The  watch  is  set,  and  through  the  night 
We  hear  the  seamen  with  delight 

Proclaim,  —  "  All's  well  !" 
Charles  Diudin. 


THE  WHITE   SQUALL. 

IN    THE   MEDITERRANEAN. 

On  deck,  beneath  tli"  awning, 
1  dozing  lay  and  yawning  ; 

It  was  the  gray  of  dawning. 
Ere  yet  the  sun  arose  ■ 


■B- 


~T? 


rfr 


480 


POEMS   OF   THE  SEA. 


And  above  the  funnel's  roaring, 
And  the  fitful  wind's  deploring, 
1  heard  the  cabin  snoring 

"With  universal  nose. 
I  could  hear  the  passengers  snorting,  — 
I  envied  their  disporting,  — 
Vainly  I  was  courting 

The  pleasure  of  a  doze. 

So  1  lay,  and  wondered  why  light 
Came  not,  and  watched  the  twilight, 
And  the  glimmer  of  the  skylight, 

That  shot  across  the  deck  ; 
And  the  binnacle  pale  and  steady, 
And  the  dull  glimpse  of  the  dead-eye, 
And  the  sparks  in  fiery  eddy 

That  whirled  from  the  chimney  neck. 
In  our  jovial  floating  prison 
There  was  sleep  from  fore  to  mizzen, 
And  never  a  star  had  risen 

The  hazy  sky  to  speck- 
Strange  company  we  harbored  : 
"We  M  a  hundred  Jews  to  larboard, 
Unwashed,  uncombed,  unbarbered,  — 

Jews  black  and  brown  and  gray. 

"With  terror  it  would  seize  ye, 
And  make  your  souls  uneasy, 
To  see  those  Rabbis  greasy, 

Who  did  naught  but  scratch  and  pray. 
Their  dirty  children  puking,  — 
Their  dirty  saucepans  cooking,  — 
Their  dirty  fingers  hooking 

Their  swarming  fleas  away. 

To  starboard  Turks  and  Greeks  were,  — 
"Whiskered  and  brown  their  cheeks  were, 
Enormous  wide  their  breeks  were,  — 

Their  pipes  did  puff  away  ; 
Each  on  his  mat  allotted 
In  silence  smoked  and  squatted, 
Whilst  round  their  children  trotted 

In  pretty,  pleasant  play. 
He  can't  but  smile  who  traces 
The  smiles  on  those  brown  faces, 
And  the  pretty,  prattling  graces 

Of  those  small  heathens  gay. 

And  so  the  hours  kept  tolling  ; 
And  through  the  ocean  rolling 
Went  the  brave  Iberia  bowling, 

Before  the  break  of  day,  — 

► 

"When  a  squall,  upon  a  sudden, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  scudding  ; 
And  the  clouds  began  to  gather, 
And  the  .sea  was  lashed  to  lather, 
And  the  lowering  thunder  grumbled, 
And  the  lightning  jumped  and  tumbled, 


And  the  ship,  and  all  the  ocean, 
Woke  up  in  wild  commotion. 
Then  the  wind  set  up  a  howling, 
And  the  poodle  dog  a  yowling, 
And  the  cocks  began  a  crowing, 
And  the  old  cow  raised  a  lowing, 
As  she  heard  the  tempest  blowing  ; 
And  fowls  and  geese  did  cackle, 
And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 
Began  to  shriek  and  crackle  ; 
And  the  spray  dashed  o'er  the  funnels, 
And  down  the  deck  in  runnels  ; 
And  the  rushing  water  soaks  all, 
From  the  seamen  in  the  fo'ksal 
To  the  stokers,  whose  black  faces 
Peer  out  of  their  bed-places  ; 
And  the  captain  he  was  bawling, 
And  the  sailors  pulling,  hauling, 
And  the  quarter-deck  tarpauling 
Was  shivered  in  the  squalling  ; 
And  the  passengers  awaken, 
Most  pitifully  shaken  ; 
And  the  steward  jumps  up,  and  hastens 
For  the  necessary  basins. 

Then  the  Greeks  they  groaned  and  quivered- 
And  they  knelt  and  moaned  and  shivered, 
As  the  plunging  waters  met  them, 
And  splashed  and  overset  them  ; 
And  they  called  in  their  emergence 
Upon  countless  saints  and  virgins  ; 
And  their  marrowbones  are  bended, 
And  they  think  the  world  is  ended. 
And  the  Turkish  women  for'ard 
Were  frightened  and  behorrored  ; 
And,  shrieking  and  bewildering, 
The  mothers  clutched  their  children  ; 
The  men  sang  "Allah  !  lllah  ! 
Mashallah  Bismillah  ! " 
As  the  warring  waters  doused  them, 
And  splashed  them  and  soused  them  ; 
And  they  called  upon  the  Prophet, 
Who  thought  but  little  of  it. 

Then  all  the  fleas  in  Jewry 

Jumped  up  and  bit  like  fury  ; 

And  the  progeny  of  Jacob 

Did  on  the  main-deck  wake  up, 

(I  wot  those  greasy  Rabbins 

Would  never  pay  for  cabins  ; ) ' 

And  each  man  moaned  and  jabbered  in 

His  filthy  Jewish  gabardine, 

In  woe  and  lamentation, 

And  howling  consternation. 

And  the  splashing  water  drenches 

Their  dirty  brats  and  wenches  ; 

And  they  crawl  from  bales  and  benches, 

In  a  hundred  thousand  stenches. 


43— 


9 


a- 


a 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


481 


This  was  the  white  squall  famous, 

Which  latterly  o'ercame  us, 

And  which  all  will  well  rememher, 

Ou  the  28th  September  ; 

When  a  Prussian  captain  of  Lancers 

(Those  tight-laced,  whiskered  prancers) 

Came  on  the  deck  astonished, 

By  that  wild  squall  admonished, 

And  wondering  cried,  "  Potz  tausend, 

Wie  ist  der  Sturm  jetzt  brausend  ? " 

And  looked  at  Captain  Lewis, 

Who  calmly  stood  and  blew  his 

Cigar  in  all  the  bustle, 

And  scorned  the  tempest's  tussle. 

And  oft  we  've  thought  hereafter 

How  he  beat  the  storm  to  laughter  ; 

For  well  he  knew  his  vessel 

With  that  vain  wind  could  wrestle  ; 

And  when  a  wreck  we  thought  her, 

And  doomed  ourselves  to  slaughter, 

How  gayly  he  fought  her, 

And  through  the  hubbub  brought  her, 

And  as  the  tempest  caught  her, 

Cried,  "  George,  some  brandy  and  water  !  " 

And  when,  its  force  expended, 

The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 

And  as  the  sunrise  splendid 

Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea,  — 

I  thought,  as  day  was  breaking, 

My  little  girls  were  waking, 

And  smiling,  and  making 

A  prayer  at  home  for  me. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 
"  Is  n't  God  upon  the  ocean 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ? " 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 

James  T.  fields. 


t- 


THE   TEMPEST. 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  would  dare  to  sleep, — 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters 
And  a  storm  was  on  the  deep. 

T  is  a  fearful  thing  in  winter 
To  be  shattered  by  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,    "Cut  away  the  mast  ! " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence,  — 
For  the  stoutesl  held  his  breath, 

"While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  iii  darkness, 
Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers, 

"We  are  losl  I"  the  captain  shunted 
A^  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 


THE   MINUTE-GUN.. 

When  in  the  storm  on  Albion's  coast, 
The  night-watch  guards  his  wary  post, 

From  thoughts  of  danger  free, 
He  marks  some  vessel's  dusky  form, 
And  hears,  amid  the  howling  storm, 

The  minute-gun  at  sea. 

Swift  on  the  shore  a  hardy  few 
The  life-boat  man  with  gallant  crew 

And  dare  the  dangerous  wave  ; 
Through  the  wild  surf  they  cleave  their  way, 
Lost  in  the  foam,  nor  know  dismay, 

For  they  go  the  crew  to  save. 

But,  0,  what  rapture  fills  each  breast 

Of  the  hopeless  crew  of  the  ship  distressed  ! 

Then,  landed  safe,  what  joy  to  tell 

Of  all  the  dangers  that  befell ! 

Then  is  heard  no  more, 

By  the  watch  on  shore, 

The  minute-gun  at  sea. 

r.  s.  SHARPE. 


THE  BAY   OF   BISCAY,    0! 

Loud  roared  the  dreadful  thunder, 

The  rain  a  deluge  showers, 
The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 

By  lightning's  vivid  powers  ; 
The  night  both  drear  and  dark, 

Our  poor  devoted  hark, 
Till  next  day,  there  she  lay, 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0  ! 

Now  dashed  upon  the  billow, 
Our  opening  timbers  creak, 

Each  fears  a  watery  pillow, 
None  stops  the  dreadful  leak  ; 

To  cling  to  slippery  shrouds 
Each  breathless  seaman  crowds, 

As  she  lay,  till  the  day, 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0  ! 


# 


482 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


ft 


At  length  the  wislied-for  morrow 

Broke  through  the  hazy  sky, 
Absorbed  in  silent  sorrow, 

Each  heaved  a  bitter  sigh  ; 
The  dismal  wreck  to  view 

Struck  horror  to  the  crew, 
As  she  lay,  on  that  day, 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0  ! 

Her  yielding  timbers  sever, 

Her  pitchy  seams  are  rent, 
When  Heaven,  all  bounteous  ever, 

Its  boundless  mercy  sent,  — 
A  sail  in  sight  appears  ; 

We  hail  her  with  three  cheers ; 

Now  we  sail,  with  the  gale, 

From  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0  ! 

Andrew  Cherry. 


THE   STORM. 

Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer  ! 

List,  ye  landsmen,  all  to  me, 
Messmates,  hear  a  brother  sailor 

Sing  the  dangers  of  the  sea  ; 

From  bounding  billows,  first  in  motion, 
When  the  distant  whirlwinds  rise, 

To  the  tempest-troubled  ocean, 

Where  the  seas  contend  with  skies. 

Hark  !  the  boatswain  hoarsely  bawling, 
By  topsail  sheets  and  halyards  stand  ! 

Down  top-gallants  quick  be  hauling  ! 
Down  your  stay-sails,  hand,  boys,  hand  ! 

Now  it  freshens,  set  the  braces, 
Quick  the  topsail  sheets  let  go  ; 

Lull',  boys,  luff  !  don't  make  wry  faces, 
Up  your  topsails  nimbly  clew. 

Round  us  roars  the  tempest  louder, 
Think  what  fear  our  minds  inthralls  ! 

Harder  yet,  it  yet  blows  harder, 
Now  again  the  boatswain  calls. 

The  topsail  yard  point  to  the  wind,  boys, 
See  all  clear  to  reef  each  course  ; 

Let  the  fore  sheet  go,  don't  mind,  boys, 
Though  the  weather  should  be  worse. 

Fore  and  aft  the  sprit-sail  yard  get, 
Reef  the  mizzen,  see  all  clear  ; 

Hands  up  !  each  preventive  brace  set  ! 
Man  the  fore  yard,  cheer,  lads,  cheer  ! 

Now  the  dreadful  thunder  's  roaring 
Peal  on  peal  contending  clash, 

On  our  heads  fierce  rain  falls  pouring, 
In  our  eyes  blue  lightnings  flash. 


One  wide  water  all  around  us, 

All  above  us  one  black  sky  ; 
Different  deaths  at  once  surround  us  : 

Hark  !  what  means  that  dreadful  cry  ? 

The  foremast 's  gone,  cries  every  tongue  out, 
O'er  the  lee  twelve  feet  'bove  deck  ; 

A  leak  beneath  the  chest-tree  's  sprung  out, 
Call  all  hands  to  clear  the  wreck. 

Quick  the  lanyards  cut  to  pieces  ; 

Come,  my  hearts,  be  stout  and  bold  ; 
Plumb  the  well,  — the  leak  increases, 

Four  feet  water  in  the  hold  ! 

While  o'er  the  ship  wild  waves  are  beating. 
We  our  wives  and  children  mourn  ; 

Alas  !  from  hence  there  's  no  retreating, 
Alas  !  to  them  there  's  no  return  ! 

Still  the  leak  is  gaining  on  us  ! 

Both  chain-pumps  are  choked  below  : 
Heaven  have  mercy  here  upon  us  ! 

For  only  that  can  save  us  now. 

O'er  the  lee-beam  is  the  land,  boys, 

Let  the  guns  o'erboard  be  thrown ; 
To  the  pumps  call  every  hand,  boys, 


See! 


our  mizzea-mast  is  gone. 


The  leak  we've  faund,  it  cannot  pour  fast ; 

We  've  lighted  her  a  foot  or  more  ; 
Up  and  rig  a  jury  foremast, 

She  rights  !  she  rights,  boys !  we  're  off  shore. 

GEORGE  ALEXANDER   STEVENS. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea,  — 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  might  be  ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion  ; 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  rock  ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  bell. 

The  holy  abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  floated  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  rock  ; 
On  the  waves  of  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  louder  and  louder  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  tempest's  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 
And  blessed  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok. 


w 


a- 


POEMS   OF   THE  SEA. 


483 


4 


The  sun  in  heaven  shone  so  gay,  — 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  sported  round, 

And  there  was  pleasure  in  their  sound. 

The  float  of  the  Inchcape  bell  was  seen, 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring,  — 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing  ; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess  ; 
But  the  rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  bell  and  float : 

Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  pull  out  the  boat ; 

And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  rock, 

And  I  '11  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok. " 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 
And  to  the  Inchcape  rock  they  go  ; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 
And  cut  the  warning  bell  from  the  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound  ; 

The  bubbles  rose,  and  burst  around. 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "The  next  who  comes  to  the 

rock 
Will  not  bless  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  sailed  away,  — 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day  ; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store, 
His  steers  his  course  to  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  could  not  see  the  sun  on  high  ; 
The  wind  had  blown  a  gale  all  day  ; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  rover  takes  his  stand  ; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
I'm  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"Cans!  hear,"  said  one,  "the  breakers  roar? 
For  yonder,  methinks,  should  be  the  shore. 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
Hut  I  wish  we  could  hear  the  Inchcape  bell." 

They  hear  no  sound  ;  the  swell  is  strong  ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along; 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock,  — 
Alas  !  it  is  the  Inchcape  ruck  ! 

Sir  Ralph,  the  rover,  tore  his  hair; 
He  beal  himself  in  wild  despair. 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side  ; 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 


But  ever  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  he  seemed  to  hear,  — 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  bell 
The  evil  spirit  was  ringing  his  knell. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


THE  FISHERMEN. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west  — 

Out  into  the  west  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  the 
best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of 
the  town  ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep  ; 
And  there 's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
And  they  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked 
at  the  shower, 
And  the  rack  it  came  rolling  up,  ragged  and 
brown  ; 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  coipses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  women  are  watching  and  wringing  their 
hands, 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep,  — 
And  the  sooner  it 's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep,  — 
And  good  by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

CHARLES  KlNGSLEY. 


0   MARY,    GO  AND  CALL  THE  CATTLE 
HOME  ! 

"0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee  !  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  lav  as  eye  could  see  ; 
The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land  : 
And  never  home  came  she. 


-B1 


484 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


a 


"  O,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair,  — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
0'  drowned  maiden's  hair,  — 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam,  — 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam,  — 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

CHARLES  KlNGSLEY. 


THE  MARINER'S  DREAM. 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor-boy  lay  ; 

His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the 
wind  ; 
But  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away, 

And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o'er  his  mind. 

He  dreamt  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native  bowers, 

Ami  pleasures  that  waited  on  life'smerry  morn  ; 

While  memory  stood  sideways  half  covered  with 

flowers, 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its  thorn. 

Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise  ; 

Now  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters  glide, 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his  eyeg. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flowers  o'er  the  thatch, 
And  the  swallow  chirps  sweet  from  her  nest  in 
the  wall  ; 

All  trembling  with  transport  he  raises  the  latch, 

And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  his  call. 

It 
A  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of  delight  ; 

His  cheek  is  impearled  with  a  mother's  warm 

tear  ; 
And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss  unite 
With    the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom 

holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast ; 
Joy  <puckens  his  pulses,  —  his  hardships  seem 
o'er  ; 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through  his 
rest,  — 
"0  God  !  thou  hast  blest  me,  — I  ask  for  no 
more." 

Ah  !  whence  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts  on 
liis  eye  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  that  sound  which  now  'larms  on 
his  ear  ? 


'T  is  the  lightning's  red  gleam,  painting  hell  on 
the  sky  ! 
'T  is  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan  of  the 
sphere  ! 

He  springs  from  his  hammock,  he  flies  to  the 
deck  ; 
Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dire  ; 
Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  vessel  a 
wreck  ; 
The  masts  fly  in  splinters  ;  the  shrouds  are  on 
fire. 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously  swell ; 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  mercy  to  save  ; 
Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell, 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad  wings  o'er 
the  wave  ! 

0  sailor-boy,  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight ! 
In  darkness  dissolves   the  gay   frost-work  of 
bliss. 
Where  now  is  the  picture  that  fancy  touched 
bright,  — 
Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  and  love's  honeyed 
kiss  ? 

0  sailor-boy  !  sailor-boy  !  never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred  thy  wishes  repay; 

Unblessed  and  unhonored,  down  deep  in  the  main, 
Full  many  a  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

No  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  to  remembrance  for  thee, 
Orredeemform  orfamefromthe  merciless  surge, 

But  the  white,  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding- 
sheet  be, 
And  winds  in  the  midnight  of  winter  thy  dirge ! 

On  a  bed  of  green  sea-flowers  thy  limbs  shall  be 
laid,  — 
Around   thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall 
grow  ; 
Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made, 
And  eveiy  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and  ages  shall  circle  away, 

And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll  ; 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  forever  and  aye,  — 

0  sailor-boy  !  sailor-boy  !  peace  to  thy  soul ! 

William  Dimond. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 

written  when  the  news  arrived  ;  1782. 

Toll  for  the  brave,  — 

The  brave  that  are  no  more  ! 

All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 
Fast  by  their  native  shore. 


& 


& 


rOEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


t85 


Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Wlio.se  courage  well  was  tried. 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset  ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock  ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes  ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 

His  victories  are  o'er  ; 

And  lie  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 

William  Cowper. 


THE   SHIPWRECK. 

In  vain  the  cords  ami  axes  were  prepared, 
For  now  the  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard  ; 
High  o'eT  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid  shade, 
And  o'er  her  hurst  in  terrible  cascade. 
Uplifted  on  the  Surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 
Her  shattered  top  half-buried  in  the  skies, 
Then  headlong  plunging  thunders  on  the  ground  ; 
Earth  groans  !  air  trembles  !  and  the  deeps  re- 

Bound  ! 
Her  giant-bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels, 
And  quivering  with  the  wound  in  torment  reels. 
So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throes, 
The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer's  blows. 
Again  she  plunges  !  hark  '  a  second  shock 
Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock  : 


Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries, 
The  fated  victims,  shuddering,  roll  their  eyes 
In  wild  despair  ;  while  yet  another  stroke, 
With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak  ; 
Till  like  the  mine,  iu  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell, 
At  length  asunder  torn  her  frame  divides, 
And,  crashing,  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 

0,  were  it  mine  with  tuneful  Maro's  art 
To  wake  to  sympathy  the  feeling  heart ; 
Like  him  the  smooth  and  mournful  verse  to  dress 
In  all  the  pomp  of  exquisite  distress, 
Then  too  severely  taught  by  cruel  fate, 
To  share  in  all  the  perils  I  relate, 
Then  might  I,  with  unrivalled  strains  deplore 
The  impervious  horrors  of  a  leeward  shore  ! 

As  o'er  the  surge  the  stooping  mainmast  hung, 

Still  on  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung  ; 

Some,  struggling,  on  a  broken  crag  were  cast, 

And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast. 

Awhile  they  bore  the  o'erwhelming  billows'  rage, 

Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage  ; 

Till,  all  benumbed  and  feeble,  they  forego    . 

Their  slippery  hold,  and  sink  to  shades  below. 

Some,  from  the  main-yard-arm  impetuous  thrown 

On  marble  ridges,  die  without  a  groan. 

Three  with  Palemon  on  their  skill  depend, 

And  from  the  wreck  on  oars  and  rafts  descend. 

Now  on  the  mountain  wave  on  high  they  ride, 

Then   downward  plunge  beneath  the  involving 

tide, 

Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive, 

The  whirling  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive  ; 

The  rest  a  speedier  end  of  anguish  knew, 

And  prest  the  stony  beach,  a  lifeless  crew  ! 

William  Falconer. 


YE   MARINERS   OF   ENGLAND. 

A   NAVAL   ODE. 
I. 

Ye  mariners  of  England, 

That  guard  our  native  seas  ; 

Whose  Hag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe  ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

ir. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  ; 

For  the  'leek  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave. 


& 


i      486 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


"Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 
"While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

m. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below,  — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

"When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

"When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

IV. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

"When  the' storm  has  ceased  to  blow  ; 

"When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


BATTLE  OF  THE   BALTIC. 

"  Look  to  the  Baltic,  —  blazing  from  afar, 
Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war." 

BYRON. 

I. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone  ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold,  determined  hand, 

And  the  prince -of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 

ii. 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine  ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  ; 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime  : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death  ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 


III. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

"Hearts  of  oak!"   our   captains  cried;   when 

each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

IV. 

Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dune 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ; 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  :  — 

Then  ceased,  —  and  all  is  Avail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail ; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. 

v. 

Outspoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave  ; 

"  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  ! 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring ; 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King."     . 

vr. 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose  ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

VII. 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise  ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 
And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore  ! 

VIII. 

Brave  hearts  !  to  Britain's  pride 
Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 
On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died 
With  the  gallant  good  Riou  : 


&~ 


# 


POEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


■a 


487 


Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave, 

"While  the  billow  mournful  rolls 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave  !  Thomas  Campbell. 


CASABIANCA. 

[Young  Casabianca,  a  boy  about  thirteen  years  old,  son  of  the  Ad- 
miral of  the  Orient,  remained  at  his  post  (in  the  Battle  of  the  Nile) 
after  the  ship  had  taken  fire  and  all  the  guns  had  been  abandoned, 
and  perished  in  the  explosion  of  the  vessel,  when  the  flames  had 
reached  the  powder.j 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 

"Whence  .all  but  him  had  fled  ; 
The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 

Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  ride  the  storm  ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud  though  childlike  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on  ;  he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word  ; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,   "Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  be  done  ? " 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"Speak,  father  ! "  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  !  " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still  yet  brave  despair  ; 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"My  father  !  must  I  stay  ?" 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud,- 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 

Tie  \  the  flag  on  high, 

And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound  ; 

The  boy,  —  Oh  !  where  was  kcl 
Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea,  — 


W^ith  shroud  and  mast  and  pennon  fair, 
That  well  had  borne  their  part,  — 

But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there 
Was  that  young,  faithful  heart. 


Felicia  Hemans. 


THE  SEA  FIGHT. 

AS   TOLD    BY   AN   ANCIENT   MARINER. 

Ah,  yes,  — the  fight  !     Well,  messmates,  well, 
I  served  on  board  that  Ninety-eight ; 

Yet  what  I  saw  1  loathe  to  tell. 

To-night  be  sure  a  crushing  weight 

Upon  my  sleeping  breast,  a  hell 
Of  dread,  will  sit.     At  any  rate, 

Though  land-locked  here,  a  watch  I  '11  keep,  — 

Grog  cheers  us  still.     WTho  cares  for  sleep  ? 

That  Ninety-eight  I  sailed  on  board  ; 

Along  the  Frenchman's  coast  we  flew  ; 
Right  aft  the  rising  tempest  roared  ; 

A  noble  first-rate  hove  in  view  ; 
And  soon  high  in  the  gale  there  soared 

Her  streamed-out  bunting,  —  red,  white,  blue  ! 
We  cleared  for  fight,  and  landward  bore, 
To  get  between  the  chase  and  shore. 

Masters,  I  cannot  spin  a  yarn 

Twice  laid  with  words  of  silken  stuff. 

A  fact 's  a  fact  ;  and  ye  may  lam 

The  rights  o'  this,  though  wild  and  rough 

My  woi'ds  may  loom.     'T  is  your  consarn, 
Not  mine,  to  understand.     Enough  ;  — 

We  neared  the  Frenchman  where  he  lay, 

And  as  we  neared,  he  blazed  away. 

We  tacked,  hove  to  ;  we  filled,  we  wore  ; 

Did  all  that  seamanship  could  do 
To  rake  him  aft,  or  by  the  fore,  — 

Now  rounded  off,  and  now  broached  to  ; 
And  now  our  starboard  broadside  bore, 

And  showers  of  iron  through  and  through 
His  vast  hull  hissed  ;  our  larboard  then 
Swept  from  his  threefold  decks  his  men. 

As  we,  like  a  huge  serpent,  toiled, 

And  wound  about,  through  that  wild  sea, 

The  Frenchman  each  manoeuvre  foiled,  — 
'Vantage  to  neither  there  could  be. 

Whilst  thus  the  waves  between  us  boiled, 
We  both  resolved  right  manfully 

To  fight  it  side  by  side  ;  —  began 

Then  the  fierce  strife  of  man  to  man. 

Gun  bellows  forth  to  gun,  and  pain 
Rings  out  her  wild,  delirious  scream  ! 

Redoubling  thunders  shake  the  main  ; 
Loud  crashing,  falls  the  shot-rent  beam. 


-— EP 


a- 


488 


POEMS  OF  THE  SEA. 


The  timbers  with  the  broadsides  strain  ; 

The  slippery  decks  send  up  a  steam 
From  hot  and  living  blood,  and  high 
And  shrill  is  heard  the  death-pang  cry. 

The  shredded  limb,  the  splintered  bone, 
The  unstiffened  corpse,  now  block  the  way  ! 

Who  now  can  hear  the  dying  groan  ? 
The  trumpet  of  the  judgment-day, 

Had  it  pealed  forth  its  mighty  tone, 
We  should  not  then  have  heard,  — to  say 

Would  be  rank  sin  ;  but  this  I  tell, 

That  could  alone  our  madness  quell. 

Upon  the  forecastle  I  fought 

As  captain  of  the  for' ad  gun. 
A  scattering  shot  the  carriage  caught ! 

What  mother  then  had  known  her  son 
Of  those  who  stood  around  ?  —  distraught, 

And  smeared  with  gore,  about  they  run, 
Then  fall,  and  writhe,  and  howling  die  ! 
But  one  escaped,  —  that  one  was  I  ! 

Night  darkened  round,  and  the  storm  pealed ; 

To  windward  of  us  lay  the  foe. 
As  he  to  leeward  over  keeled, 

He  could  not  fight  his  guns  below  ; 
So  just  was  going  to  strike,  —when  reeled 

Our  vessel,  as  if  some  vast  blow 
From  an  Almighty  hand  had  rent 
The  huge  ship  from  her  element. 

Then  howled  the  thunder.     Tumult  then 

Had  stunned  herself  to  silence.     Round 
Were  scattered  lightning-blasted  men  ! 

Our  mainmast  went.     All  stifled,  drowned, 
Arose  the  Frenchman's  shout.     Again 

The  bolt  burst  on  us,  and  we  found 
Our  masts  all  gone,  —  our  decks  all  riven  : 

Man's  war  mocks  faintly  that  of  heaven  ! 

Just  then,  —  nay,  messmates,  laugh  not  now,  - 

As  I,  amazed,  one  minute  stood 
Amidst  that  rout,  —  1  know  not  how,  — 

'T  was  silence  all,  —  the  raving  flood, 
The  grins  that  pealed  from  stem  to  bow, 

And  God's  own  thunder,  — nothing  could 
I  then  of  all  that  tumult  hear, 

Or  see  aught  of  that  scene  of  fear,  — 

My  aged  mother  at  her  door 

Sat  mildly  o'er  her  humming  wheel ; 

The  cottage,  orchard,  and  the  moor,  — 
I  saw  them  plainly  all.     I  '11  kneel, 

And  swear  I  saw  them  !     0,  they  wore 
A  look  all  peace  ?     Could  I  but  feel 

Again  that  bliss  that  then  I  felt, 

That  made  my  heart,  like  childhood's,  melt  1 


The  blessed  tear  was  on  my  cheek, 

She  smiled  with  that  old  smile  I  know  : 

"  Turn  to  me,  mother,  turn  and  speak," 
Was  on  my  quivering  lips,  —  when  lo  ! 

All  vanished,  and  a  dark,  red  streak 
Glared  wild  and  vivid  from  the  foe, 

That  flashed  upon  the  blood-stained  water,  — 

For  fore  and  aft  the  flames  had  caught  her. 

She  struck  and  hailed  us.     On  us  fast 
All  burning,  helplessly,  she  came,  — 

Near,  and  more  near  ;  and  not  a  mast 
Had  we  to  help  us  from  that  flame. 

'T  was  then  the  bravest  stood  aghast,  — * 
'T  was  then  the  wicked,  on  the  name 

(With  danger  and  with  guilt  appalled) 

Of  God,  too  long  neglected,  called. 

The  eddying  flames  with  ravening  tongue 
Now  on  our  ship's  dark  bulwarks  dash,  — 

We  almost  touched,  —  when  ocean  rung 
Down  to  its  depths  with  one  loud  crash  ! 

In  heaven's  top  vault  one  instant  hung 
The  vast,  intense,  and  blinding  flash  ! 

Then  all  was  darkness,  stillness,  dread,  — 

The  wave  moaned  o'er  the  valiant  dead. 

She  's  gone  !  blown  up  !  that  gallant  foe  ! 

And  though  she  left  us  in  a  plight, 
We  floated  still ;  long  were,  I  know, 

And  hard,  the  labors  of  that  night 
To  clear  the  wreck.     At  length  in  tow 

A  frigate  took  us,  when  't  was  light ; 
And  soon  an  English  port  we  gained,  — 
A  hulk  all  battered  and  blood-stained. 

So  many  slain,  —  so  many  drowned  ! 

I  like  not  of  that  fight  to  tell. 
Come,  let  the  cheerful  grog  go  round  ! 

Messmates,  I  've  done.     A  spell,  ho  !  spell,  - 
Though  a  pressed  man,  I  '11  still  be  found 

To  do  a  seaman's  duty  well. 
I  wish  our  brother  landsmen  knew 
One  half  we  jolly  tars  go  through. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   SAILOR'S  WIFE. 

And  are  ye  stare  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he  's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark  ? 

Ye  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel  , 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Colin 's  at  the  door  ? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I  '11  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there  's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There  's  nae  luck  at  a'  ; 
There  's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman  's  awa\ 


tB- 


e 


POEMS   OF  THE  SEA. 


489       i 


And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop's  satin  gown  ; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 

That  Colin  's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  stockin's  pearly  blue  ; 
It  's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 

For  he  's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat  ; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw  ; 
It 's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he  's  been  long  awa'. 

There  's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair  ; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare  ; 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'  ? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air  ; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in  't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair,  — 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I  'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I  'm  like  to  greet  ! 

If  Colin  's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave  : 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae 

I  'm  blest  aboon  the  lave  : 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I  'in  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  1  'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there  's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There  's  nae  luck  at  a'  ; 
There  'a  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman  's  awa'. 

w.  J.  MICKLE. 


SIP  SIDNEY  SMITH. 

Gentlefolks,  in  my  time,  I  've  made  many  a 

rhyme, 
But  tin'  Bong  I  now  trouble  you  with, 
Lays  some  claim  to  applause,  and  you'll  grant 

it,  because 
The  subject  'a  Sir  Sidney  Smith,  it  is  ; 
The  subject's  Sir  Sidney  Smith. 


We  all  know  Sir  Sidney,  a  man  of  such  kidney, 
He  'd  fight  every  foe  he  could  meet ; 
Give  him  one  ship  fortwo,  and  without  more  ado, 
He  'd  engage  if  he  met  a  whole  fleet,  he  would, 
He  'd  engage  if  he  met  a  whole  fleet. 

Thus  he  took,  every  day,  all  that  came  in  his  way, 

Till  fortune,  that  changeable  elf, 

Ordered  accidents  so,  that  while  taking  the  foe, 

Sir  Sidney  got  taken  himself,  he  did, 

Sir  Sidney  got  taken  himself. 

His  captors,  right  glad  of  the  prize  they  now  had, 

Rejected  each  offer  we  bid, 

And  swore  he  should  stay  locked  up  till  doomsday  ; 

But  he  swore  he  'd  be  d d  if  he  did,  he  did, 

But  he  swore  he  'd  be  hanged  if  he  did. 

So  Sir  Sid  got  away,  and  his  jailer  next  day 

Cried,  "  Sacre,  diable,  morbleu, 

Mon  prisonnier  'scape  ;  I  'ave  got  in  von  scrape, 

And  I  fear  I  must  run  away  too,  I  must, 

I  fear  I  must  run  away  too  !  " 

If  Sir  Sidney  was  wrong,  why  then  blackball  my 

song, 
E'en  his  foes  he  would  scorn  to  deceive  ; 
His  escape  was  but  just,  and  confess  it  you  must, 
For  it  only  was  taking  French  leave,  you  know, 
It  only  was  taking  French  leave. 

CHARLES  DIBDIN. 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE  BRITISH  SAILOR. 

I  love  contemplating  —  apart 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory  — 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 
Napoleon's  glory ! 

'T  was  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 
His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him  —  I  know  not  how  — 

Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam  ; 
And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks  !  pursued  the  flight 

Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over  ; 
Willi  envy  they  could  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 
If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 


B- 


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a 


UK) 


rOEMS   OF   THE   SEA. 


At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning,  dreaming,  doting, 
An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating  ; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 

The  live-long  day  laborious  ;  lurking 
Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  't  was  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched  ;  such  a  wherry 
Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field, 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder  ; 
Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled,  — 
No  sail,  no  rudder. 

From  neighboring  woods  he  interlaced 

His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows  ; 
And  thus  equipped  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows,  — 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 

His  little  Argus  sorely  jeering  ; 
Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 

Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger  ; 
And,  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Addressed  the  stranger  :  — 

"Rash  man,  that  wouldstyon  Channel  pass 

On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned, 
Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"  I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad  ; 

"  But  —  absent  long  from  one  another  — 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 
To  see  my  mother." 

"  And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said, 
' '  Ye  've  both  my  favor  fairly  won  ; 
A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 
He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 

To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty, 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 

Of  Bonaparte. 

Thomas  Campbell, 


HOW'S  MY  BOY? 

"  Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  ! 
How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? " 
"What's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife, 
And  in  what  ship  sailed  he  ? " 


"My  boy  John  — 

He  that  went  to  sea  — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ?  . 

My  boy 's  my  boy  to  me. 

"You  come  back  from  sea, 

And  not  know  my  John  ? 

I  might  as  well  have  asked  some  landsman, 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There 's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 

But  knows  my  John. 


"  How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
And  unless  you  let  me  know, 
I  '11  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 
Blue  jacket  or  no,  — 
Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 
Anchor  and  crown  or  no,  — 
Sure  his  ship  was  the  '  Jolly  Briton ' 
"Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  1" 


"  And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 
About  my  own  boy  John  ? 
If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 
I  'd  sing  him  over  the  town  ! 
Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor  ? " 
"  That  good  ship  went  down." 


"  How  's  my  boy —  my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 
I  was  never  aboard  her. 
Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground, 
Sinking  or  swimming,  I  '11  be  bound 
Her  owners  can  afford  her  I 
I  say,  how  's  my  John  ? " 
"Every  man  on  board  went  down, 
Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 
I  'm  not  their  mother  — 
How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  1 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other  I 
How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? " 

SYDNEY  DOBELL. 


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a 


a 


POEMS  OF  ADVENTURE  AND  RURAL  SPORTS. 


CHEVY-CHASE. 

[Percy,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  had  vowed  to  hunt  for  three 
days  in  the  Scottish  border,  without  condescending  to  ask  leave 
from  Earl  Douglas,  who  was  either  lord  of  the  soil  or  lord  warden 
of  the  Marches.  This  provoked  the  conflict  which  was  celebrated 
in  the  old  ballad  of  the  "  Hunting  a'  the  Cheviot."  The  circum- 
stances of  the  battle  of  Otterbourne  (A.  D.  1388)  are  woven  into 
the  ballad  and  the  affairs  of  the  two  events  confounded.  The 
ballad  preserved  in  the  Percy  Reliques  is  probably  as  old  as 
1574.  The  one  following  is  a  modernized  form  of  the  time  of 
J. Hues  I.J 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all  ; 
A  woful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy-Chase  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Earl  Percy  took  his  way  ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer  days  to  take,  — 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chase 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tidings  to  Earl  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay  ; 

"Who  sent  Earl  Percy  present  word 

He  would  prevent  his  sport. 
The  English  earl,  not  fearing  that, 

Did  to  the  woods  resort, 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold, 

A 11  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 

To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran 

To  chase  the  fallow  deer  ; 
On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt 

When  daylight  did  appear; 

Ami  long  before  high  noon  they  had 

A  hundred  fa1  bucks  slain  ; 
Thru,  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 

To  rouse  i  be  deer  again. 


The  bowmen  mustered  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure  ; 
And  all  their  rear,  with  special  care, 

That  day  was  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods 

The  nimble  deer  to  take, 
That  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 

To  view  the  slaughtered  deer  ; 
Quoth  he,  "  Earl  Douglas  promised 

This  day  to  meet  me  here  ; 

"  But  if  I  thought  he  would  not  come, 

No  longer  would  I  stay  "  ; 
With  that  a  brave  young  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  earl  did  say  :  — 

"  Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come,  — 

His  men  in  armor  bright  ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 

All  marching  in  our  sight ; 

"All  men  of  pleasant  Teviotdale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed  "  ; 
"Then  cease  your  sports,"  Earl  Percy  said, 
"  And  take  your  bows  with  speed  ; 

"And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 

Your  courage  forth  advance  ; 
For  never  was  there  champion  yet, 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

' '  That  ever  did  on  horseback  come, 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

With  him  to  break  a  spear." 

Earl  Douglas  on  his  milk-white  steed, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremosl  of  bis  company, 

Whose  aniuir  shone  like  gold. 

"  Show  me,"  said  he,  "whose  men  yon  be, 

That  bunt  so  boldly  here, 
That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deer." 


Ie-~ 


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494 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


The  first  man  that  did  answer  make, 

Was  noble  Percy  he  — 
Who  said,  ' '  We  list  not  to  doclare, 

Nor  show  whose  men  we  be : 

"Yet  will  we  spend  our  dearest  blood 
Thy  chiefest  harts  to  slay." 

Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say  : 

"Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be, 

One  of  us  two  shall  die  ; 
I  know  thee  well,  an  earl  thou  art, — 

Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

"  But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were, 

And  great  offence,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltless  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

"  Let  you  and  me  the  battle  try, 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
"  Accursed  be  he,"  Earl  Percy  said, 

"  By  whom  this  is  denied." 

Then  stepped  a  gallant  squire  forth, 
Witherington  was  his  name, 

Who  said,  "I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry,  our  king,  for  shame, 

' '  That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot, 

And  I  stood  looking  on. 
You  two  be  earls,"  said  Witherington, 

"  And  1  a  squire  alone  ; 

"  I'll  do  the  best  that  do  I  may, 
While  I  have  power  to  stand  ; 

While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword 
I  '11  fight  with  heart  and  hand." 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows,  — 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true ; 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent, 
Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew. 

Yet  stays  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 
As  chieftain  stout  and  good  ; 

As  valiant  captain,  all  unmoved, 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

As  leader  ware  and  tried  ; 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bore  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a  wound  ; 

But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
All  firmly  kept  their  ground. 


And  throwing  straight  their  bows  away, 
They  grasped  their  swords  so  bright ; 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 
On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side,  — 
No  slackness  there  was  found  ; 

And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  grief  to  see 
How  each  one  chose  his  spear, 

And  how  the  blood  out  of  their  breasts 
Did  gush  bike  water  clear. 

At  last  these  two  stout  earls  did  meet ; 

Like  captains  of  great  might, 
Like  lions  wode,  they  laid  on  lode, 

And  made  a  cruel  fight. 

They  fought  until  they  both  did  sweat, 
With  swords  of  tempered  steel, 

Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain, 
They  trickling  down  did  feel. 

"Yield  thee,  Lord  Percy,"  Douglas  said, 

"  In  faith  I  mil  thee  bring 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 

By  James,  our  Scottish  king. 

"Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give, 

And  this  report  of  thee,  — 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see." 

"No,  Douglas,"  saith  Earl  Percy  then, 

"  Thy  proffer  I  do  scorn  ; 
I  will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 

That  ever  yet  was  born." 

With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart,  • 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow  ; 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than  these  : 
"  Fight  on,  my  meny  men  all ; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end  ; 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall." 

Then  leaving  life,  Earl  Percy  took 

The  dead  man  by  the  hand  ; 
And  said,  "  Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 

Would  I  had  lost  my  land. 

"  In  truth,  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake  ; 
For  sure  a  more  redoubted  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take." 


& 


& 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


495 


ft 


A  knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was 

Who  saw  Earl  Douglas  die, 
Who  straight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 

Upon  the  Earl  Percy. 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  called, 
Who,  with  a  spear  full  bright, 

Well  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight ; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 

Without  a  dread  or  fear  ; 
And  through  Earl  Percy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hateful  spear  ; 

With  such  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore, 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  die, 
Whose  courage  none  could  stain. 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  earl  was  slain. 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree  ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

To  the  hard  head  haled  he. 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery 

So  right  the  shaft  he  set, 
The  gray  goose  wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun  ; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

With  stout  Earl  Percy  there  were  slain 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Rateliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron. 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 
Both  knights  of  good  account, 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Etaby  there  was  slain, 
Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 

Fot  Witherington  my  heart  is  woe 

That  ever  he  slain  should  be, 
For  when  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two, 

lie  knelt  and  fought  on  his  knee. 

And  with  Kail  Douglas  there  were  slain 

sir  Hugh  Mountgomery, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that   from  the  field 

<  hie  foot  would  never  tlee. 


Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Rateliff,  too,  — 

His  sister's  son  was  he  ; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

But  saved  he  could  not  be. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Earl  Douglas  die  : 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three  ; 
The  rest  in  Chevy-Chase  were  slain, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewail ; 
They  washed  their  wounds  in  brinish  tears, 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  blood, 

They  bore  with  them  away  ; 
They  kissed  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

The  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Where  Scotland's  king  did  reign, 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain  : 

"  0  heavy  news,"  King  James  did  say  ; 

"  Scotland  can  witness  be 
I  have  not  any  captain  more 

Of  such  account  as  he." 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slain  in  Chevy-Chase  : 

"Now  God  be  with  him,"  said  our  King, 

"Since  't  will  no  better  be  ; 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he  : 

"Yet  shall  not  Scots  or  Scotland  say 

But  1  will  vengeance  take  ; 
I  '11  be  revenged  on  them  all 

For  brave  Earl  Percy's  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  King  performed 

After  at  Huirbledown  ; 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain 

With  lords  of  high  renown  ; 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  hundreds  die  : 
Tims  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chase, 

Ma.de  by  the  Earl  Percy. 


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496 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE  AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


:i 


God  save  the  king,  and  bless  this  land, 

"With  plenty,  joy,  and  peace  ; 
And  grant,  henceforth,  that  foul  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 

Richard  shealb. 


ROBIN   HOOD   AND   ALLEN-A-DALE. 

[Of  Robin  Hood,  the  famous  outlaw  of  Sherwood  Forest,  and  his 
merry  men,  there  are  a  large  number  of  ballads  ;  but  the  limits 
of  this  volume  necessitate  our  giving-  a  selection  only. 

Various  periods,  ranging  from  the  time  of  Richard  I.  to  the  end 
of  the  reign  of  Edward  11.,  have  been  assigned  as  the  age  in  which 
Robin  Hood  lived.  He  is  usually  described  as  a  yeoman,  and  his 
place  of  abode  Sherwood  Forest,  in  Nottinghamshire.  His  most 
noted  followers,  and  those  generally  spoken  of  in  the  ballads,  are 
Little  John,  Friar  Tuck,  his  chaplain,  and  his  maid  Marian.  Near- 
ly  all  the  legends  extol  his  courage,  generosity,  humanity,  and  skill 
as  an  archer.  He  robbed  the  rich  only,  who  could  afford  to  lose, 
and  gave  freely  to  the  poor.  He  protected  the  needy,  was  a 
champion  of  the  fair  sex,  and  took  great  delight  in  robbing  pre- 
lates. The  following  ballad  exhibits  the  outlaw  in  one  of  his  most 
attractive  aspects,  —  affording  assistance  to  a  distressed  lover.] 

Come,  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free, 
All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear, 

And  I  will  tell  you  of  a  bold  outlaw, 
That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 

As  Robin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood, 

All  under  the  greenwood  tree, 
There  he  was  aware  of  a  brave  young  man, 

As  fine  as  fine  might  be. 

The  youngster  was  clad  in  scarlet  red, 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay  ; 
And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain, 

And  chanted  a  roundelay. 

As  Robin  Hood  next  morning  stood 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 
There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 

Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 

It  was  clean  cast  away  ; 
And  at  every  step  he  fetched  a  sigh, 

' '  Alas  !  and  a  well-a-day  !  " 

Then  stepped  forth  brave  Little  John, 

And  Midge,  the  miller's  son  ; 
Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow, 

Whenas  he  see  them  come. 

"  Stand  off !  stand  off  !  "  the  young  man  said, 

"  What  is  your  will  with  me  ? " 
"You  must  come  before  our  master  straight, 

Under  yon  greenwood  tree." 

And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 

Robin  asked  him  courteously, 
"0,  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare, 

For  my  merry  men  and  me  ? " 


"  I  have  no  money,"  the  young  man  said, 

"  But  five  shillings  and  a  ring  ; 
And  that  I  have  kept  these  seven  long  years, 

To  have  at  nry  wedding. 

"  Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid, 

But  she  was  from  me  ta'en, 
And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight's  delight, 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain. " 

"What  is  thy  name  ?"  then  said  Robin  Hood, 

"Come  tell  me  without  any  fail." 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young 
man, 

"  My  name  it  is  Allen-a-Dale." 

"  What  wilt  thou  give  me,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"In  ready  gold  or  fee, 
To  help  thee  to  thy  true-love  again, 

And  deliver  her  unto  thee  ? " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  then  quoth  the  young  man, 

"  No  ready  gold  nor  fee, 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 

Thy  true  servant  for  to  be." 

"  How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true-love  ? 

Come  tell  me  without  guile." 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young 
man, 

"  It  is  but  five  little  mile." 

Then  Robin  he  hasted  over  the  plain, 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  linn,  * 
Until  he  came  unto  the  church 

Where  Allen  should  keep  his  weddin'. 

"  What  hast  thou  here  ?  "  the  bishop  then  said, 

"  I  prithee  now  tell  unto  me." 
"  I  am  a  bold  harper,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  And  the  best  in  the  north  country." 

"0.  welcome,  0,  welcome,"  the  bishop  he  said, 

"That  music  best  pleaseth  me." 
"You  shall  have  no  music,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  Till  the  bride  and  bridegroom  I  see." 

With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 

Which  was  both  grave  and  old  ; 
Arid  after  him  a  finikin  lass, 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 

"  This  is  not  a  fit  match,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"That  you  do  seem  to  make  here  ; 

For  since  we  are  come  into  the  church, 
The  bride  shall  chuse  her  own  dear." 

Then  Robin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  and  three  ; 
When  four-and-twenty  yeomen  bold 

Come  leaping  over  the  lea. 

*  Stop  nor  stay. 


& 


■EP 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


49 


fl 


And  when  they  came  into  the  churchyard, 

Marching  all  in  a  row, 
The  fii-st  man  was  Allen-a-Dale, 

To  give  bold  Robin  his  bow. 

"  This  is  thy  true-love,"  Robin  he  said, 

"  Young  Allen,  as  I  hear  say  ; 
And  you  shall  be  married  this  same  time, 

Before  we  depart  away." 

"  That  shall  not  be,"  the  bishop  he  cried, 

"  For  thy  word  shall  not  stand  ; 
They  shall  be  three  times  asked- in  the  church, 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land." 

Robin  Hood  pulled  off  the  bishop's  coat, 

And  put  it  upon  Little  John  ; 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  Robin  said, 

"  This  cloth  doth  make  thee  a  man." 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  quire, 

The  people  began  to  laugh  ; 
He  asked  them  seven  times  into  church 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 

"  "Who  gives  me  this  maid  ?  "  said  Little  John, 
Quoth  Robin  Hood,  "  That  do  I  ; 

And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allen-a-Dale, 
Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy." 

And  then,  having  ended  this  merry  wedding, 

The  bride  looked  like  a  queen  ; 
And  so  they  returned  to  the  merry  greenwood, 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   KING   AND   THE   MILLER   OF 
MANSFIELD. 

Henry,  our  royall  king,  would  ride  a-hunting 
To  the  grene  forest  so  pleasant  and  fa  ire  ; 

e  the  harts  skipping,  anddainty  does  tripping : 
Unto  merry  Sherwood  his  nobles  repaire  : 

Hawke    and    hound   were    unbound,  all    things 

prepared 
For  the  game,  in  the  same,  with  good  regard. 

All  a  long  summer's  day  rode  the  kingpleasantlye 
With  all  his  princes  and  nobles  eche  one  ; 
ing  the  hart  and  hind,  and  the  bucke  gal- 
lantlye, 
Till  the  dark  evening  forced  alltoturnehome. 
Then  a1  last,  riding  fast,  he  had  Iosl  quite 
All  his  lords  in  the  wood,  late  in  the  night. 

Wanderingthus  wearilye,  all  alone,  up  and  downe, 
With  a  rude  miller  he  mett  at  the  last  ; 

Asking  the  ready  way  unto  faire  Nottingham, 
"Sir,"  quoth  the  miller,  "  I  meane  not  to  jest, 


Yet  I  thinke,  what  I  thinke,  sooth  for  to  say, 
Yo  doe  not  lightlye  ride  out  of  your  way." 

"Why,  what  dost  thou  think  of  me,"  quoth  our 
king,  merrily, 
"  Passing  thy  judgment  upon  me  so  briefe  ?  " 
"  Good  faith,"  sayd  the  miller,  "  I  meane  not  to 
flatter  thee  ; 
I  guess  thee  to  be  but  some  gentleman  thefe  : 
Stand  thee  backe  in  the  dark  ;  light  not  adowne, 
Lest  that  1  presentlye  crack  thy  knave's  crowne." 

"  Thou  dost  abuse  me  much,"  quoth  the  king, 
"  saying  thus  ; 
I  am  a  gentleman  ;  lodging  I  lacke." 
"Thou  hast  not,"  ipioth  the  miller,   "  one  grot 
in  thy  purse  ; 
All  thy  inheritance  hanges  on  thy  backe." 
"  1  have  gold  to  discharge  all  that  1  call ; 
If  it  be  but  forty  pence,  1  will  pay  all." 

Thus  they  went  all  along  unto  the  miller's  house, 
Where  they  were  seething  of  puddings   and 
souse  ; 
The  miller  first  entered  in ;  after  him  went  the  king; 

Never  came  hee  in  soe  smoakye  a  house. 
"Now,"  quoth  hee,  "let  me  see  here  what  you 

are." 
Quoth  our  king,  "  Looke  your  fill,  and  doe  not 
spare." 

"I    like   well  thy  countenance;  thou  hast   an 
honest  face  ; 
With  my  son  Richard  this  night  thoushalt  lye." 
Quoth  his  wife,  "  By  my  troth,  it  is  a  handsome 
youth  ; 
Yet  it's  best,  husband,  to  deal  warilye. 
Art  thou  no  runaway  ;  prythee,  youth,  tell  ? 
Show  me  thy  passport,  and  all  shall  be  well." 

Then  our  king,  presentlye  making  lowe  courtesye, 
With  his  hatt  in  his  hand,  thus  he  did  say  : 

"  1  have  no  passport,  nor  never  was  servitor, 
But  a  poor  courtier,  rode  out  of  my  way  ; 

And  for  your  kindness  here  offered  to  mee, 

I  will  requite  you  in  everye  degree." 

Then  to  the  miller  his  wife  whispered  secretive, 
Saying,  "  It  seemeth  this  youth  's  of  good  kin, 

Both  by  his  apparel,  and  eke  by  Ins  manners  : 
To  turne  him  out,  certainlye,  were  a  great  sin." 

"  Yea,"  quoth  hee,    "you  may  see  lie  hath  some 

grace 
When  he  doth  speake  to  his  betters  in  place." 

"  Well,"  quoth  the  miller's  wife,  "young  man, 
ye  're  welcome  here  ; 
And,  though  I  say  it,  well  lodged  shall  be  ; 


<&- 


& 


498 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


•V 


Fresh  straw  will  I  have  laid  on  thy  heel  so  brave, 
And  good   brown   hempen   sheets   likewise," 

quoth  shee. 
"Aye,"  quoth  the  goodman,  "  and  when  that  is 

done, 
Thou  shalt  lye  with  no  worse  than  our  own  sonne." 

"Nay,  first,"  quoth  Richard,  " good  fellowe,  tell 
me  true, 
Hast  thou  no  creepers  within  thy  gay  hose? 
Or  art  thou  not  troubled  with  the  scabbado  ?" 
"I  pray,"  quoth  the  king,    "what  creatures 
are  those  ? " 
"Art  thou  not  lousy,  nor  scabby  ?"  quoth  he  : 
"If  thou  beest,  surely  thou  lyest  not  with  mee." 

This  caused  the  king  suddeulye  to  laugh  most 
heartilye, 

Till  the  teares  trickled  fast  downefrom  his  eyes. 
Then  to  their  supper  were  they  set  orderlye, 

With  hot  bag-puddings  and  good  apple-pyes  ; 
Nappy  ale,  good  and  stale,  in  a  browne  bowle, 
Which  did  about  the  board  merrilye  trowle. 

"Here,"    quoth   the   miller,    "good  fellowe,    1 
drinke  to  thee, 
And  to  all  '  cuckholds,  wherever  they  bee.'  " 
"  I  pledge  thee,"  quoth  our  king,  "and  thanke 
thee  heartilye 
For  mye  welcome  in  every  good  degree  ; 
And  here,  in  like  manner,  I  drinke  to  thy  sonne." 
"Do,  then,"  quoth  Richard,  "and  quicke  let  it 
come." 

"Wife,"    quoth   the  miller,    "fetch   me   forth 
light  foote, 
And  of  his  sweetnesse  a  little  we  '11  taste." 
A.  fair  ven'son  pastye  brought  she  out  presentlye. 
"  Eate,"  quoth  the  miller  ;   "  but,  sir,  make  no 
waste. 
Here  's  dainty  lightfoote  !  "  —  "In  faith,"  sayd 

the  king, 
"  I  never  before  eat  so  daintye  a  thing." 

"  I  wis,"  quoth  Richard,  "  no  daintye  at  all  it  is  ; 

For  we  doe  eate  of  it  everye  day." 
"In    what   place,"   sayd   our   king,    "may  be 
bought  like  to  this  ?  " 
"  We  never  pay  penny  for  itt,  by  my  fay  : 
From  merry  Sherwood  we  fetch  it  home  here  ; 
Now  and  then  we  make  bold  with  our  kinge's 
deer." 

"Then    I  thinke,"  sayd  our  king,    "that  it  is 
venison." 
"  Eche  foole,"  quoth  Richard,  "  full  well  may 
know  that  ; 
Never  are  wee  without  two  or  three  in  the  roof, 
Very  well  Meshed,  and  excellent  fat  : 


But,  prythee,  say  nothing  wherever  thou  goe  ; 
We  would  not,  for  twopence,  the  king  should  it 
knowe." 

' '  Doubt  not,"  then  sayd  the  king,  "  my  promist 
secresye  ; 

The  king  shall  never  know  more  on't  for  me." 
A  cupp  of  lamb's- wool  they  dranke  unto  him  then, 

And  to  their  bedds  they  past  presentlye. 
The  nobles,  next  morning,  went  all  up  and  down, 
For  to  seeke  out  the  king  in  every  towne. 

At  last,  at  the  miller's  "  cott,"  soon  they  espied 
him  out, 
As  he  was  mounting  upon  his  faire  steede  ; 
To  whom  they  came  presently,  falling  down  on 
their  knee, 
Which  made  the  miller's  heart  wofully  bleede  ; 
Shaking  and  quaking,  before,  him  he  stood, 
Thinking  he  should  have  been  hanged  by  the  Rood. 

The  king  perceiving  him  fearfully  trembling, 
Drew  forth  his  sword,  but  nothing  he  sed  ; 

The  miller  downe  did  fall,  crying  before  them  all, 
Doubting  the  king  would  have  cut  off  his  head. 

But  he,  his  kind  courtesye  for  to  requite, 

Gave  him  great  living  and  dubbed  him  a  knight. 

Anonymous. 


THE   RETURN   OF   BEPPO. 

While  Laura  thus  was  seen,  and  seeing,  smiling, 
Talking,  she  knew  not  why,  and  cared  not  what, 

So  that  her  female  friends,  with  envy  broiling, 
Beheld  her  airs  and  triumph,  and  all  that ; 

And  well-dressed  males  still  kept  before  her  filing, 
And  passing  bowed  and  mingled  with  her  chat ; 

More  than  the  rest  one  person  seemed  to  stare 

With  pertinacity  that  's  rather  rare. 

He  was  a  Turk,  the  color  of  mahogany  ; 

And  Laura  saw  him,  and  at  first  was  glad, 
Because  the  Turks  so  much  admire  philogyny, 

Although  their  usage  of  their  wives  is  sad  ; 
'T  is  said  they  use  no  better  than  a  dog  any 

Poor  woman,  whom  they  purchase  like  a  pad  ; 
They  have  a  number,  though  they  ne'er  exhibit 'em, 
Four  wives  by  law,  and  concubines  "ad  libitum . ' ' 

They  lock  them  up,  andveil,  andguardthem  daily, 
They  scarcely  can  behold  their  male  relations, 

So  that  their  moments  do  not  pass  so  gayly 
As  is  supposed  the  case  with  northern  nations  ; 

Confinement,   too,  must  make  them  look  quite 
palely  ; 
And  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations, 

Their  days  are  either  passed  in  doing  nothing, 

Or  bathing,  nursing,  making  love,  and  clothing. 


-I? 


e— 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


499 


Our  Laura's  Turk  still  kept  his  eyes  upon  her, 
Less  in  the  Mussulman  than  Christian  way, 

Which  seems  to  say,  "  Madam,  I  do  you  honor, 
And  while  I  please  to  stare,  you  '11  please  to  stay. " 

Could  staring  win  a  woman,  this  had  won  her, 
But  Laura  could  not  thus  he  led  astray  ; 

She  had  stood  fire  too  long  and  well  to  hoggle 

Even  at  this  stranger's  most  outlandish  ogle. 


Laura,  who  knew  it  would  not  do  at  all 

To  meet  the  daylight  after  seven  hours'  sitting 

Among  three  thousand  people  at  a  ball, 

To  make  her  courtesy  thought  it  right  and  fit- 
ting : 

The  Count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl, 
Andtheythe  room  wereonthe  pointof  quitting, 

When  lo  !  those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 

Just  in  the  very  place  where  they  should  not. 

The  Count  and  Laura  found  their  boat  at  last, 
And  homeward  floated  o'er  the  silent  tide, 

Discussing  all  the  dances  gone  and  past ; 
The  dancers  and  their  dresses,  too,  beside  ; 

Some  little  scandals  eke  :  but  all  aghast 
(As  to  their  palace  stairs  the  rowers  glide) 

Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  Adorer, 

When  lo  !  the  Mussulman  was  there  before  her. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Count,  with  browcxceedinggrave, 
"Your  unexpected  presence  here  will  make 

It  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 

Its  import  ?     But  perhaps  't  is  a  mistake  ; 

I  hope  it  is  so  ;  and  at  once  to  waive 

All  compliment,  I  hope  so  for  your  sake  : 

Yon  understand  my  meaning,  or  you  skull." 

"  Sir  "  (quoth  the  Turk),  "  't  is  no  mistake  at  all. 

"  That  lady  is  my  wife  /"    Much  wonder  paints 
The  lady's  changing  cheek,  as  well  it  might ; 

But  where  an  English  woman  sometimes  faints, 
Italian  females  don't  do  so  outright. 

They  only  call  a  little  on  their  saints, 

And  then  come  to  themselves,  almost  or  quite  ; 

Which  saves  much  hartshorn,  suits,  and  sprink- 
ling fairs, 

And  cutting  stays,  as  usual  in  such  cases. 

She  said,    -what  could  she  say?     Why,   not  a 
word  ; 

But  the  Counl  courteously  invited  in 
The  stranger,  much  appeased  by  \vha1  he  heard  : 

"Such    tilings,   perhaps,    we'd    best    discuss 
w  itliin," 
Said  he  ;  "don't  lei  us  make  ourselves  absurd 

In  public,  by  a  scene,  nor  raise  a  din, 
For  then  the  chief  and  only  satisfai  I  ion 
Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  transaction." 


They  entered,  and  for  coffee  called,  —  it  came, 
A  beverage  for  Turks  and  Christians  both, 

Although  the  way  they  make  it  's  not  the  same. 
Now  Laura,  much  recovered,  or  less  loath 

Tospeak,  cries,  "Beppo  !  what's  your  pagan  name? 
Bless  me  !  your  beard  is  of  amazing  growth  1 

And  how  came  you  to  keep  away  so  long  ? 

Are  you  not  sensible  't  was  very  wrong  ? 

"  And  are  you  really,  truly,  now  a  Turk  ? 

With  any  other  women  did  you  wive  ? 
Is  't  true  they  use  their  fingers  for  a  fork  ? 

Well,  that 's  the  prettiest  shawl — as  I  'm  alive ! 
You  '11  give  it  me  ?     They  say  you  eat  no  pork. 

And  how  so  many  years  did  you  contrive 
To  —  Bless  me  !  Did  I  ever  ?  No,  I  never 
Saw  a  man  grown  so  3'ellow  !    How  's  your  liver  ? 

"  Beppo,  that  beard  of  yours  becomes  you  not  ; 

It  shall  be  shaved  before  you  're  a  day  older  ; 
Why  do  you  wear  it  ?     0,1  had  forgot  — 

Pray,  don't  you  think  the  weather  here  is  colder  ? 
How  do  I  look  ?   You  sha'  n't  stir  from  this  spot 

In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  beholder 
Should  find  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 
How  short  your  hair  is  !  Lord  !    how  gray  it 's 
grown  !  " 

What  answer  Beppo  made  to  these  demands 
Is  more  than  I  know.     He  was  cast  away 

About  where  Troy  stood  once,  and  nothing  stands ; 
Became  a  slave,  of  course,  and  for  his  pay 

Had  bread  and  bastinadoes,  till  some  bands 
Of  pirates  landing  in  a  neighboring  bay, 

He  joined  the  rogues  and  prospered,  and  became 

A  renegado  of  indifferent  fame. 

But  he  grew  rich,  and  with  his  riches  grew  so 
'     Keen  the  desire  to  see  his  home  again, 
lie  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  do  so, 

And  not  be  always  thieving  on  the  main  ; 
Lonely  he  felt,  at  times,  as  Robin  Crusoe, 

And  so  he  hired  a  vessel  come  from  Spain, 
Bound  for  Corfu  :  she  was  a  fine  polacca, 
Manned  with  twelve  hands,  and  laden  with  to- 
bacco. 

Himself,  and  much  ( Heaven  knows  how  gotten  ! ) 
cash, 

He  then  embarked,  with  risk  of  life  and  limb, 
And  got  clear  off,  although  theattempl  was  rash  ; 

//-  said  thai  Providence  protei  ted  him,  — 
For  my  part,  I  say  nothing,  lesl  we  clash 

In  our  opinions  :  -  -  well,  the  ship  was  trim, 
Set  sail,  and  kepi  her  reckoning  fairly  on, 
Excepl  three  days  of  calm  when  off  Cape  Bonn. 

They  reached  the  i  sland,  lie  transferred  hislading, 
And  self  and  live  stock,  to  another  1» <\  torn, 


=& 


a- 


500 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


ft 


And  passed  for  a  true  Turkey  merchant,  trading 
With  goods  of  various  names,  "but  I've  forgot 'em. 

However,  he  got  off  by  this  evading, 

Or  else  the  people  would  perhaps  have  shot 
him ; 
And  thus  at  Venice  landed  to  reclaim 
His  wile,  religion,  house,  and  Christian  name. 

His  wife  received,  the  patriarch  rebaptized  him 

(He  made  the  church  a  present,  by  the  way )  ; 
He  then  threw  off  the  garments  which  disguised 
him, 
And  borrowed  the  Count's  small-clothes  for  a 
day  ;  _ 

His  friends  the  more  for  his  long  absence  prized 
him, 
Finding  lie  'd  wherewithal  to  make  them  gay 
With  dinners,  where  he  oft  became  the  laugh  of 

them, 
For  stories,  —but  J  don't  believe  the  half  of  them. 

VVhate'er  his  youth  had  suffered,  his  old  age 
With   wealth   and   talking   made   him   some 
amends  ; 

Though  Laura  sometimes  put  him  in  a  rage, 
I '  ve  heard  the  Count  and  he  were  always  friends. 

My  pen  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  page, 

Which  being  finished,  here  the  story  ends  ; 

'T  is  to  be  wished  it  had  been  sooner  done, 

But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  begun. 

BYRON. 


-♦ 


JOCK   JOHNSTONE,  THE   TINKLER. 

"  0,  came  ye  ower  by  the  Yoke-burn  Ford, 
Or  down  the  King's  Road  of  the  cleuch  ?  * 

Or  saw  ye  a  knight  and  a  lady  bright, 

Wha  ha'e  gane  the  gate  they  baith  shall  rue  ?  "• 

"  I  saw  a  knight  and  a  lady  bright 

Ride  up  the  cleuch  at  the  break  of  day  ; 

The  knight  upon  a  coal-black  steed, 

And  the  i lame  on  one  of  the  silver-gray. 

"  And  the  lady's  palfrey  flew  the  first, 

With  many  a  clang  of  silver  bell : 
Swift  as  the  raven's  morning  flight 

The  two  went  scouring  ower  the  fell. 

"  By  this  time  they  are  man  and  wife, 
And  standing  in  St.  Mary's  fane  ; 

And  the  lady  in  the  grass-green  silk 
A  maid  you  will  never  see  again." 

"  But  I  can  tell  thee,  saucy  wight,  — 
And  that  the  runaway  shall  prove,  — 

Revenge  to  a  Douglas  is  as  sweet 

As  maiden  charms  or  maiden's  love." 

*  Dell. 


"Since  thou  say'st  that,  my  Lord  Douglas, 
Good  faith  some  clinking  there  will  be  ; 

Beshrew  my  heart,  but  and  my  sword, 
If  I  winna  turn  and  ride  with  thee  ! " 

They  whipped  out  ower  the  Shepherd  Cleuch, 
And  doun  the  links  o'  the  Corsecleuch  Bum  •, 

And  aye  the  Douglas  swore  by  his  sword 
To  win  his  love,  or  ne'er  return. 

"First  fight  your  rival,  Lord  Douglas, 

And  then  brag  after,  if  you  may  ; 
For  the  Earl  of  Ross  is  as  brave  a  lord 

As  ever  gave  good  weapon  sway. 

"  But  I  for  ae  poor  siller  merk, 

Or  thirteen  pennies  and  a  bawbee, 
Will  tak  in  hand  to  fight  you  baith, 

Or  beat  the  winner,  whiche'er  it  be." 

The  Douglas  turned  him  on  his  steed, 
And  I  wat  a  loud  laughter  leuch  he  : 

"  Of  a'  the  fools  I  have  ever  met, 
Man,  I  ha'e  never  met  ane  like  thee. 

"Art  thou  akin  to  lord  or  knight, 
Or  courtly  squire  or  warrior  leal?" 

"  I  am  a  tinkler,"  quo'  the  wight, 

"  But  1  like  crown-cracking  unco  week" 

When  they  came  to  St.  Mary's  kirk, 

The  chaplain  shook  for  very  fear  ; 
And  aye  he  kissed  the  cross,  and  said, 

"  What  deevil  has  sent  that  Douglas  here  ! 

"  He  neither  values  book  nor  ban, 

But  curses  all  without  demur  ; 
And  cares  nae  mair  for  a  holy  man 

Than  1  do  for  a  worthless  cur." 

"Come  here,  thou  bland  and  brittle  priest, 

And  tell  to  me  without  delay 
Where  you  have  hid  the  lord  of  Ross 

And  the  lady  that  came  at  the  break  of  day." 

"No  knight  or  lady,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
Have  I  beheld  since  break  of  morn  ; 

And  I  never  saw  the  lord  of  Ross 

Since  the  woful  day  that  I  was  born." 

Lord  Douglas  turned  him  round  about, 
And  looked  the  Tinkler  in  the  face  ; 

Where  he  beheld  a  lurking  smile, 
And  a  deevil  of  a  dour  grimace. 

"How  's  this,  how 's  this,  thou  Tinkler  loun ? 

Hast  thou  presumed  to  lie  on  me  ?  " 
"  Faith  that  I  have  !  "  the  Tinkler  said, 

"  And  a  right  good  turn  I  have  done  to  thee  , 


e 


a* 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


—a 

501       I 


"For  the  lord  of  Ross  and  thy  own  true-love, 
The  beauteous  Harriet  of  Thirlestane, 

Rade  west  away,  ere  the  break  of  day  ; 

And  you  '11  never  see  the  dear  maid  again  ; 

"So  I  thought  it  best  to  bring  you  here, 
On  a  wrang  scent,  of  my  own  accord  ; 

For  had  you  met  the  Johnstone  clan, 

They  wad  ha'e  made  mince-meat  of  a  lord." 

At  this  the  Douglas  was  so  wroth 

He  wist  not  what  to  say  or  do  ; 
But  he  strak  the  Tinkler  o'er  the  croun, 

Till  the  blood  came  dreeping  ower  his  brow. 

"  Beshrew  my  heart,"  quo'  the  Tinkler  lad, 
"Thou  bear'st  thee  most  ungallantlye  ! 

If  these  are  the  manners  of  a  lord, 

They  are  manners  that  winnagangdoun  wi'  me." 

"  Hold  up  thy  hand,"  the  Douglas  cried, 
"  And  keep  thy  distance,  Tinkler  louu  !  " 

"That  will  I  not,"  the  Tinkler  said, 

' '  Though  I  and  my  mare  should  both  go  down  ! " 

"I  have  armor  on,"  cried  the  Lord  Douglas, 
"Cuirass  and  helm,  as  you  may  see." 

"  The  deil  me  care  !  "  quo'  the  Tinkler  lad  ; 
"  I  shall  have  a  skelp  at  them  and  thee." 

"You  are  not  horsed,"  quo'  the  Lord  Douglas, 

"  And  no  remorse  this  weapon  brooks." 
"Mine's  a  right  good  yaud,"  quo'  the  Tinkler  lad, 

"And  a  great  deal  better  nor  she  looks. 

"  So  stand  to  thy  weapons,  thou  haughty  lord, 
What  I  have  taken  1  needs  must  give  ; 

Thou  shalt  never  strike  a  tinkler  again, 
For  the  langest  day  thou  hast  to  live." 

Then  to  it  they  fell,  both  sharp  and  snell, 
Till  the  fire  from  both  their  weapons  Hew  ;' 

But  the  very  first  shock  that  they  met  with, 
The  Douglas  his  rashness  'gan  to  rue. 

For  though  he  had  on  a  sink  of  mail, 
And  a  cuirass  on  his  breast  wore  he, 

With  a  good  steel  bonnet  on  his  head, 
Yet  the  blood  ran  tiinkling  to  his  knee. 

The  Douglas  sat  upright  and  firm, 

Aye  as  together  their  horses  ran  ; 
Bu1  the  Tinkler  laid  on  like  a  very  deil,  — 

Siccarj  strokes  were  never  laid  on  by  man. 

"  1 1 < tlil  up  thy  hand,  thou  Tinkler  loun," 
Cried  the  poor  priest,  with  whining  din  ; 

"  If  thou  hurt  the  brave  Lord  James  Douglas, 
A  curse  be  on  thee  and  all  thy  kin  !" 


"I  care  no  more  for  Lord  James  Douglas 
Than  Lord  James  Douglas  cares  for  me  ; 

But  I  want  to  let  his  proud  heart  know 
That  a  tinkler  's  a  man  as  well  as  he." 

So  they  fought  on,  and  they  fought  on, 
Till  good  Lord  Douglas'  breath  was  gone  ; 

And  the  Tinkler  bore  him  to  the  ground, 
With  rush,  with  rattle,  and  with  groan. 

"  0  hon  !  0  hon  !  "  cried  the  proud  Douglas, 
"That  I  this  day  should  have  lived  to  see  ! 

For  sure  my  honor  I  have  lost, 

And  a  leader  again  I  can  never  be  !  ■ 

"But  tell  me  of  thy  kith  and  kin, 
And  where  was  bred  thy  weapon  hand  ? 

For  thou  art  the  wale  of  tinkler  loons 
That  ever  was  born  in  fair  Scotland." 

"  My  name  's  Jock  Johnstone,"  quo'  the  wight ; 

"  I  winna  keep  in  my  name  frae  thee  ; 
And  here,  tak  thou  thy  sword  again, 

And  better  friends  we  two  shall  be." 

But  the  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
That  was  a  debt  he  could  never  owe  ; 

He  would  rather  die  at  the  back  of  the  dike 
Than  owe  his  sword  to  a  man  so  low. 

I  "  But  if  thou  wilt  ride  under  my  banner, 
And  bear  my  livery  and  my  name, 
My  right-hand  warrior  thou  shalt  be 

And  1  '11  knight  thee  on  the  field  of  fame." 

"Woe  worth  thy  wit,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
To  think  I  'd  change  my  trade  for  thine  ; 

Far  better  and  wiser  would  you  be, 
To  live  a  journeyman  of  mine, 

"  To  mend  a  kettle  or  a  casque, 
Or  clout  a  goodwife's  yettlin'  pan,  — 

Upon  my  life,  good  Lord  Douglas, 
You  'd  make  a  noble  tinkler-man  ! 

"  I  would  give  you  drammock  twice  a  day, 

And  sunkets  on  a  Sunday  morn, 
And  you  should  be  a  rare  adept 

In  steel  and  copper,  brass  and  horn! 

"I  '11  fight  you  every  day  you  rise, 

Till  you  can  act  the  hem's  part  ; 
Therefore,  1  pray  you,  think  of  this, 

And  lay  it  seriously  to  heart." 

The  Douglas  writhed  beneath  the  lash, 
Answering  with  an  inward  eur.se,  — 
Like  salmon  wriggling  on  a  spear, 

That   makes  his  deadly  wound  the  worse. 


q^ 


w 


e 


502 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


f] 


But  up  there  came  two  squires  renowned  ; 

In  search  of  Lord  Douglas  they  came  ; 
And  when  they  saw  their  master  down, 

Their  spirits  mounted  in  a  name. 

And  they  Hew  upon  the  Tinkler  wight, 

Like  perfect  tigers  on  their  prey  : 
But  the  Tinkler  heaved  his  trusty  sword, 

And  made  him  ready  for  the  fray. 

"Come  one  to  one,  ye  coward  knaves,  — 
Come  hand  to  hand,  and  steed  to  steed  ; 

I  would  that  ye  were  better  men, 
For  this  is  glorious  work  indeed  ! " 

Before  you  could  have  counted  twelve, 

The  Tinkler's  wondrous  chivalrye 
Had  both  the  squires  upon  the  sward, 

And  their  horses  galloping  o'er  the  lea. 

The  Tinkler  tied  them  neck  and  heel, 

And  mony  a  biting  jest  gave  he  : 
"  0  fie,  for  shame  !  "  said  the  Tinkler  lad  ; 

"  Sicean  fighters  I  did  never  see  ! " 

He  slit  one  of  their  bridle  reins,  — 

0,  what  disgrace  the  conquered  feels  !  — 

And  he  skelpit  the  squires  with  that  good  tawse, 
Till  the  blood  ran  off  at  baith  their  heels. 

The  Douglas  he  was  forced  to  laugh 
Till  down  his  cheek  the  salt  tear  ran  : 

"  I  think  the  deevil  be  come  here 
In  the  likeness  of  a  tinkler  man  ! " 

Then  he  has  to  Lord  Douglas  gone, 

And  he  raised  him  kindly  by  the  hand, 

And  he  set  him  on  his  gallant  steed, 
And  bore  him  away  to  Henderland : 

"  Be  not  cast  down,  my  Lord  Douglas, 
Nor  writhe  beneath  a  broken  bane  ; 

For  the  leech's  art  will  mend  the  part, 
And  your  honor  lost  will  spring  again. 

"  'T  is  true,  Jock  Johnstone  is  my  name  ; 

I  'm  a  right  good  tinkler,  as  you  see  ; 
For  I  can  crack  a  casque  betimes, 

Or  clout  one,  as  my  need  may  be. 

"Jock  Johnstone  is  my  name,  't  is  true,  — 
But  noble  hearts  are  allied  to  me; 

For  I  am  the  lord  of  Annandale, 

And  a  knight  and  earl  as  well  as  thee." 

Then  Douglas  strained  the  hero's  hand, 
And  took  from  it  his  sword  again  : 

"Since  thou  art  the  lord  of  Annandale, 
Thou  hast  eased  my  heart  of  meikle  pain. 


"  I  might  have  known  thy  noble  form 
In  that  disguise  thou  'rt  pleased  to  wear  ; 

All  Scotland  knows  thy  matchless  arm, 
And  England  by  experience  dear. 

* '  We  have  been  foes  as  well  as  friends, 
And  jealous  of  each  other's  sway  ; 

But  little  can  I  comprehend 

Thy  motive  for  these  pranks  to-day." 

"  Sooth,  my  good  lord,  the  truth  to  tell, 
'T  was  I  that  stole  your  love  away, 

And  gave  her  to  the  lord  of  Ross 
An  hour  before  the  break  of  day  ; 

"For  the  lord  of  Ross  is  my  brother, 

By  all  the  laws  of  chivalrye  ; 
And  I  brought  with  me  a  thousand  men 

To  guard  him  to  my  ain  countrye. 

"But  I  thought  meet  to  stay  behind, 
And  try  your  lordship  to  waylay, 

Resolved  to  breed  some  noble  sport, 
By  leading  you  so  far  astray. 

"  Judging  it  better  some  lives  to  spare,  — 
Which  fancy  takes  me  now  and  then,  — 

And  settle  our  quarrel  hand  to  hand, 
Than  each  with  our  ten  thousand  men. 

"  God  send  you  soon,  my  Lord  Douglas, 
To  Border  foray  sound  and  haill  ! 

But  never  strike  a  tinkler  again, 

If  he  be  a  Johnstone  of  Annandale." 

James  Hogg. 


NORVAL. 

My  name  is  Norval :  on  the  Grampian  hills 
My  father  feeds  his  flocks  ;  a  frugal  swain, 
Whose  constant  cares  were  to  increase  his  store, 
And  keep  his  only  son,  myself,  at  home. 
For  I  had  heard  of  battles,  and  I  longed 
To  follow  to  the  field  some  warlike  lord  : 
And  Heaven  soon  granted  what  my  sire  denied. 
This  moon  which  rose  last  night,  round  as  my 

shield, 
Had  not  yet  filled  her  horns,  when,  by  her  light 
A  band  of  fierce  barbarians,  from  the  hills, 
Rushed  like  a  torrent  down  upon  the  vale, 
Sweeping  our  flocks  and  herds.     The  shepherds 

fled 
For  safety  and  for  succor.     1  alone,    . 
With  bended  bow,  and  quiver  full  of  arrows, 
Hovered  about  the  enemy,  and  marked 
The  road  he  took,  then  hastened  to  my  friends. 
Whom,  with  a  troop  of  fifty  chosen  men, 
The  pursuit  I  led, 


I  met  advancing 


B- 


-& 


a- 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


503 


Till  we  o'ertook  the  spoil-encumbered  foe. 

We   fought  and   conquered.     Ere  a  sword   was 

drawn 
An  arrow  from  my  bow  had  pierced  their  chief, 
'Who  wore  that  day  the  arms  which  now  I  wear. 
Returning  home  in  triumph,  I  disdained 
The  shepherd's  slothful  life ;  and  having  heard 
That  our  good  king  had  summoned  his  bold  peers 
To  lead  their  warriors  to  the  Carron  side, 
I  left  my  father's  house,  and  took  with  me 
A  chosen  servant  to  conduct  my  steps,  — 
Yon  trembling  coward,  who  forsook  his  master. 
Journeying  with  this  intent,  I  passed  these  towers, 
And,  Heaven-directed,  came  this  day  to  do 
The  happy  deed  that  gilds  my  humble  name. 

John  Home. 


JORASSE. 

JORASSE  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year  ; 
Graceful  and  active  as  a  stag  just  roused  ; 
Gentle  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  speech, 
Yet  seldom  seen  to  smile.     He  had  grown  up 
Among  the  hunters  of  the  Higher  Alps  ; 
Had  caught  their  starts  and  fits  of  thoughtful- 

11  ess, 
Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquies. 

Once,  nor  long  before, 
Alone  at  daybreak  on  the  Mettenberg, 
He  slipped,  he  fell  ;  and,  through  a  fearful  cleft 
Gliding  from  ledge  to  ledge,  from  deep  to  deeper, 
Went  to  the  under-world  !      Long-while  he  lay 
Upon  his  rugged  bed,  — then  waked  like  one 
Wishing  to  sleep  again  and  sleep  forever  ! 
For,  looking  round,  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw, 
Innumerable  branches  of  a  cavern, 
Winding  beneath  a  solid  crust  of  ice  ; 
With    here  and  there  a  rent    that   showed  the 

stars  ! 
Whal  then,  alas,  was  left  him  but  to  die? 
W hat  else  in  those  immeasurable  chambers, 
Strewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men, 
Lost  like  himself?     Yet  must  he  wander  on, 
Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free  ! 
And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round  ; 
When  hark,  the  noise  as  of. sunn'  mighty  river 
Working  its  way  to  ligh.1  '     Back  he  withdrew, 
Bui  soon  returned,  and,  fearless  from  despair, 

tied  down  the  dismal  channel  ;   and  all  day, 

If  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was, 
Travelled  incessantly,  the  craggy  roof 
Jusi  overhead,  and  the  impetuous  waves, 
Noi  broad  nor  deep,  yel  with  a  giant's  strength, 
Lashing  him  on.     At  Ias1  the  water  slept 
In  a  dead  lake,  — at  the  third  step  he  took, 
Unfathomable,  —  and  the  roof,  that  long 


Had  threatened,  suddenly  descending,  lay 
Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-like  he  stood, 
His  journey  ended,  when  a  ray  divine 
Shot  through  his  soul.     Breathing  a  prayer  to 

her 
AVhose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
He  plunged,  he  swam,  — and  in  an  instant  rose, 
The  barrier  past,  in  light,  in  sunshine  !    Through 
A  smiling  valley,  full  of  cottages, 
Glittering  the  river  ran  ;  and  on  the  bank 
The  young  were  dancing  ft  was  a  festival-day) 
All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 
His  Madelaine.     In  the  crowd  she  stood  to  hear, 
When  all  drew  round,  inquiring  ;  and  her  face, 
Seen  behind  all,  and  varying,  as  he  spoke, 
With  hope  and  fear  and  generous  sympathy, 
Subdued  him.     From  that  very  hour  he  loved. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


PRINCE   ADEB. 

In  Sana,  0,  in  Sana,  God,  the  Lord, 
Was  very  kind  and  merciful  to  me  ! 
Forth  from  the  Desert  in  my  rags  I  came, 
Weary  and  sore  of  foot.     I  saw  the  spires 
And  swelling  bubbles  of  the  golden  domes 
Rise  through  the  trees  of  Sana,  and  my  heart 
Grew  great  within  me  with  the  strength  of  God ; 
And  I  cried  out,  "  Now  shall  I  right  myself,  — 
I,  Adeb  the  despised,  —  for  God  is  just  !  " 
There   he   who   wronged    my   father    dwelt    in 

peace,  — 
My  warlike  father,  who,  when  gray  hairs  crept 
Around  his  forehead,  as  on  Lebanon 
The  whitening  snows  of  winter,  was  betrayed 
To  the  sly  Imam,  and  his  tented  wealth 
Swept  from  him,  'twixt  the  roosting  of  the  cock 
And  his  first  crowing,  — in  a  single  night : 
And  I,  poor  Adeb,  sole  of  all  my  race, 
Smeared   with   my  father's  and   my  kinsmen's 

bl I, 

Fled  through  the  Desert,  till  one  day  a  tribe 

Of  hungry  Bedouins  found  me  in  the  .sand, 

Half  mad  with  famine,  and  they  took  me  up, 

And  made  a  slave  of  me,  —  of  me,  a  prince! 

All  was  fulfilled  at  last.      1  lied  from  them. 

In  rags  and  sorrow.     Nothing  bill  my  heart, 

Like  a  si  rong    \\  [miner,  bore  me  up  against 

The  howling  sea  of  my  adversity. 

At  length  o'er  Sana,  in  the  act  to  swoop, 

1  stood  like  a  young  eagle  on  a  crag. 

The  traveller  passed  me  with  suspicious  fear  : 

I  asked  for  nothing  ;    I  was  not  a  thief. 

The  lean  does  snuffed  around  me:    my  lank  hone. 

fed  on  tic  berries  and  the  crusted  pools. 

Were  a   scant    morsel.       Once  a    1  n  ov.  u-skinne 

<nrl 


<B- 


■i 


t& 


504 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


Called  me  a  little  from  the  common  path, 

Ami  gave  me  figs  and  barley  in  a  bag. 

I  paid  her  with  a  kiss,  with  nothing  more, 

And  she  looked  glad  ;  for  I  was  beautiful, 

And  virgin  as  a  fountain,  and  as  cold. 

I  stretched  her  bounty,  pecking  like  a  bird, 

Her  tigs  and  barley,  till  my  strength  returned. 

So  when  rich  Sana  lay  beneath  my  eyes, 

My  foot  was  as  the  leopard's,  and  my  hand 

As  heavy  as  the  lion's  blandished  paw: 

And  underneath  my  burnished  skin  the  veins 

And  stretching  muscles  played,  at  every  step, 

In  wondrous  motion.     I  was  very  strong. 

I  looked  upon  my  body,  as  a  bird 

That  bills  his  feathers  ere  he  takes  to  flight,  — 

I,  watching  over  Sana.     Then  I  prayed  ; 

And  on  a  soft  stone,  wetted  in  the  brook, 

Ground   my   long  knife  ;    and   then    I   prayed 

again. 
God  heard  my  voice,  preparing  all  for  me, 
As,  softly  stepping  down  the  hills,  I  saw 
The  Imam's  summer-palace  all  ablaze 
In  the  last  flash  of  sunset.     Every  fount 
Was  spouting  fire,  and  all  the  orange-trees 
Bore  blazing  coals,  and  from  the  marble  walls 
And    gilded    spires     and     columns,    strangely 

wrought, 
Glared  the  red  light,  until  my  eyes  were  pained 
With  the  fierce  splendor.     Till  the  night  grew 

thick, 
I  lay  within  the  bushes,  next  the  door, 
Still  as  a  serpent,  as  invisible. 
The  guard  hung  round  the  portal.     Man  by  man 
Tiny  dropped  away,  save  one  lone  sentinel, 
And  on  his  eyes  God's  finger  lightly  fell  ; 
He  slept  half  standing.     Like  a  summer  wind 
That  threads  the  grove,  yet  never  turns  a  leaf, 
I  stole  from  shadow  unto  shadow  forth  ; 
Crossed  all  the  marble  court-yard,  swung  the  door, 
Like  a  soft  gust,  a  little  way  ajar,  — 
My  body's  narrow  width,  no  more,  —  and  stood 
Beneath  the  cresset  in  the  painted  hall. 
I  marvelled  at  the  riches  of  my  foe  ; 
I  marvelled  at  God's  ways  with  wicked  men. 
Then  1  reached  forth,  and  took  God's  waiting 

hand  : 
And  so  he  led  me  over  mossy  floors, 
Flowered  with  the  silken  summer  of  Shiraz, 
Straight  to  the  Imam's  chamber.     At  the  door 
Stretched  a  brawn  eunuch,  blacker  than  my  eyes  : 
His  woolly  head  lay  like  the  Kaba-stone 
In  Mecca's  mosque,  as  silent  and  as  huge. 
I       oped  across  it,  with  mypointed  knife 
Ju.it  ;.  a  full  vein  along  his  neck, 

And,  pushing  by  the  curtains,  there  I  was,  — 
I,  Adeb  the  despised,  —  upon  the  spot 
That,  next  to  heaven,  I  longed  for  most  of  all. 
I  could  have  shouted  for  the  joy  in  me. 


Fierce  pangs  and  flashes  of  bewildering  light 
Leaped  through  my  brain  and  danced  before  my 

eyes. 
So  loud  my  heart  beat,  that  I  feared  its  sound 
"Would  wake  the  sleeper  ;  and  the  bubbling  blood 
Choked  in  my  throat  till,  weaker  than  a  child, 
I  reeled  against  a  column,  and  there  hung 
In  a  blind  stupor.     Then  I  prayed  again  : 
And,  sense  by  sense,  I  was  made  whole  once  more. 
I  touched  myself  ;  I  was  the  same  ;  I  knew 
Myself  to  be  lone  Adeb,  young  and  strong, 
With  nothing  but  a  stride  of  empty  air 
Between  me  and  God's  justice.     In  a  sleep, 
Thick  with  the  fumes  of  the  accursed  grape, 
Sprawled  the  false  Imam.     On  his  shaggy  breast, 
Like  a  white  lily  heaving  on  the  tide 
Of  some  foul  stream,  the  fairest  woman  slept 
These  roving  eyes  have  ever  looked  upon. 
Almost  a  child,  her  bosom  barely  showed 
The.  change  beyond  her  girlhood.     All  her  charms 
Were  budding,  but  half  opened  ;  for  I  saw 
Not  only  beauty  wondrous  in  itself, 
But  possibility  of  more  to  be 
In  the  full  process  of  her  blooming  days. 
I  gazed  upon  her,  and  my  heart  grew  soft, 
As  a  parched  pasture  with  the  dew  of  heaven. 
While  thus  I  gazed  she  smiled,  and  slowly  raised 
The  long  curve  of  her  lashes  ;  and  we  looked 
Each  upon  each  in  wonder,  not  alarm,  — ■ 
Not  eye  to  eye,  but  soul  to  soul,  we  held 
Each  other  for  a  moment.     All  her  life 
Seemed  centred  in  the  circle  of  her  eyes. 
She   stirred   no   limb ;    her   long-drawn,    equal 

breath 
Swelled  out  and  ebbed  away  beneath  her  breast, 
In  calm  unbroken.     Not  a  sign  of  fear 
Touched  the  faint  color  on  her  oval  cheek, 
Or  pinched  the  arches  of  her  tender  mouth. 
She  took  me  for  a  vision,  and  she  lay 
With  her  sleep's  smile  unaltered,  as  in  doubt 
Whether  real  life  had  stolen  into  her  dreams, 
Or  dreaming  stretched  into  her  outer  life. 
I  was  not  graceless  to  a  woman's  eyes. 
The  girls  of  Damar  paused  to  see  me  pass, 
I  walking  in  my  rags,  yet  beautiful. 
One  maiden  said,  "  He  has  a  prince's  air  !  " 
I  am  a  prince  ;  the  air  was  all  my  own. 
So  thought  the  lily  on  the  Imam's  breast ; 
And  lightly  as  a  summer  mist,  that  lifts 
Before  the  morning,  so  she  floated  up, 
Without  a  sound  or  rustle  of  a  robe, 
From  her  coarse  pillow,  and  before  me  stood 
With  asking  eyes.     The  Imam  never  moved. 
A  stride  and  blow  were  all  my  need,  and  they 
Were  wholly  in  my  power.     I  took  her  hand, 
I  held  a  warning  finger  to  my  lips, 
And  whispered  in  her  small,  expectant  ear, 
"  Adeb,  the  son  of  Akem  !  "     She  replied 


B- 


fl- 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


505 


ft 


In  a  low  murmur  whose  bewildering  sound 
Almost  lulled  wakeful  me  to  sleep,  and  sealed 
The  sleeper's  lids  in  tenfold  slumber,  "  Prince, 
Lord  of  the  Imam's  life  and  of  my  heart, 
Take  all  thou  seest,  —  it  is  thy  right,  I  know,  — 
But  spare  the  Imam  for  thy  own  soul's  sake  !  " 
Then  I  arrayed  me  in  a  robe  of  state, 
Shining  with  gold  and  jewels;  and  I  bound 
In  my  long  turban  gems  that  might  have  bought 
The  lands  'twixt  Babelmandeb  and  Sahan. 
I  girt  about  me,  with  a  blazing  belt, 
A  scimitar  o'er  which  the  sweating  smiths 
In  far  Damascus  hammered  for  long  years, 
Whose  hilt  and  scabbard  shot  a  trembling  light 
From  diamonds  and  rubies.     And  she  smiled, 
As  piece  by  piece  I  put  the  treasures  on, 
To  see  me  look  so  fair,  —  in  pride  she  smiled. 
I  hung  long  purses  at  my  side.     I  scooped, 
From  off  a  table,  figs  and  dates  and  rice, 
And  bound  them  to  my  girdle  in  a  sack. 
Then  over  all  I  flung  a  snowy  cloak, 
And  beckoned  to  the  maiden.     So  she  stole 
Forth  like  my  shadow,  past  the  sleeping  wolf 
Who  wronged  my  father,  o'er  the  woolly  head 
Of  the  swart  eunuch,  down  the  painted  court, 
And  by  the  sentinel  who  standing  slept. 
Strongly  against  the  portal,  through  my  rags,  — 
My  old  base  rags, — and  through  the  maidenls 

veil, 
I  pressed  my  knife,  —  upon  the  wooden  hilt 
Was  "Adeb,  son  of  Akem,"  carved  by  me 
In  my  long  slavehood,  — as  a  passing  sign 
To  wait  the  Imam's  waking.     Shadow.-;  east 
From  two  high-sailing  clouds  upon  the  sand 
Passed  not  more  noiseless  than  we  two,  as  one, 
Glided  beneath  the  moonlight,  till  1  smelt 
The  fragrance  of  the  stables.     As  I  slid 
The  wide  doors  open,  with  a  sudden  bound 
Uprose  the  startled  horses  :  but  they  stood 
Still  as  the  man  who  in  a  foreign  land 
Hears  his  strange  language,  when  my  Desert  call, 
As  low  and  plaintive  as  the  nested  dove's, 
Fell  on  their  listening  ems.     From  stall  to  stall, 
Feeling  the  horses  with  my  groping  hands, 
1  en-pi  iii  darkness  ;  and  at  length  1  came 
Upon  two  sister  mares  whose  rounded  sides, 
Fine  muzzles,  and  small  heads,  and  pointed  ears, 
And  foreheads  spreading  'twixt  their  eyelids  wide, 

Long     lender  tails,  thin  manes,  and  coats  of  silk, 
Told  me,  that,  of  the  hundred  steeds  there  stalled, 
Mj  hind  v.:,    on  i  he  t  rea  sures.     <  t'er  and  o'er 
I  fell  their  bony  joints,  and  down  their  legs 
To  the  cool  hoofs  :    -  no  blemish  anywhere  : 
These  I  led  forth  and  saddled.     Upon  one 
I  set  the  Lily,  gathered  now  for  me,  — 
My  own,  henceforth,  forever.     So  we  rode 
Across  the  grass,  beside  the  stony  path, 
Until  we  gained  the  highway  that  is  lost, 


Leading  from  Sana,  in  the  eastern  sands  : 
When,  with  a  cry  that  both  the  desert-born 
Knew  without  hint  from  whip  or  goading  spur, 
We  dashed  into  a  gallop.     Far  behind 
In  sparks  and  smoke  the  dusty  highway  rose  ; 
And  ever  on  the  maiden's  face  I  saw, 
When  the  moon  Hashed  upon  it,  the  strange  smile 
It  wore  on  waking.     Once  I  kissed  her  mouth, 
When  she  grew  weary,  and  her  strength  returned. 
All  through  the  night  we  scoured  between  the  hi  1 !  i 
The  moon  went  down  behind  us,  and  the  stars 
Dropped  after  her  ;  but  long  before  I  saw 
A  planet  blazing  straight  against  our  eyes, 
The  road  had  softened,  and  the  shadowy  hills 
Had  flattened  out,  and  I  could  hear  the  hiss 
Of  sand  spurned  backward  by  the  flying  mares. 
Glory  to  God  !     1  was  at  home  again  ! 
The  sun  rose  on  us  ;  far  and  near  I  saw 
The  level  Desert ;  sky  met  sand  all  round. 
We  paused  at  mid-day  by  a  palm-crowned  well, 
And  ate  and  slumbered.     Somewhat,  too,  was 

said  : 
The  words  have  slipped  my  memory.    That  same 

eve 
We  rode  sedately  through  a  Hamoum  camp,  — 
I,  Adeb,  prince  amongst  them,  and  my  bride. 
And  ever  since  amongst  them  I  have  ridden, 
A  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  the  best ; 
And  ever  since  my  days  have  been  of  gold, 
My  nights  have  been  of  silver,  —  God  is  just  ! 

George  Henry  Boker. 


MAZEPPA'S   RIDE. 

"'Bring   forth   the   horse!'  —  the   horse   was 
brought, 

In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  looked  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs  ;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiletl,  — 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught  ; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
1  n  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led  ; 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong  ; 
Then  looked  him  with  a  sudden  lash, — 
Away  !       away  !       and  on  we  dash  ! 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

"  Away  !       away  '        My  breath  was  gone,  — 
I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on  ; 
"I  was  scarcely  yel  the  break  of  day. 
And  on  he  foamed,  —  away  !       away  !  — 


q^ 


-ff 


a 


506 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


■ft 


The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 
As  I  was  darted  from  my  iocs, 
Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 
Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout; 
With  sudden  wrath  I  wrenched  my  head, 
And  snapped  the  cord  which  to  the.  mane 
Had  hound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howled  back  my  curse  ;  but  midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed, 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed  : 

"Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 

All  human  dwellings  left  behind  ; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  checkered  with  the  northern  light  : 
Town,  — village,  — none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black  ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 

"  But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away, 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray  ; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane  ; 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career  ; 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed, 
He  must  have  slackened  in  his  speed  ; 
But  no,  —  my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might, 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became  : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 

Increased  his  fury  and  affright  : 
I  tried  my  voice,  —  't  was  faint  and  low, 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow  ; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang  ; 
.Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er  ; 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

"  We  neared  the  wild  wood,  — 't  was  so  wide, 

1  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side  ; 

'T  was  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees, 

That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 

Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste, 

And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste,  — 

But  these  went  few  and  far  between, 

Bet  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green, 

Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 


Ere  strown  by  those  autumnal  eves 
That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 
Discolored  with  a  lifeless  red, 
Which  stands  thereon  like  stiffened  gore 
Upon  the  slain  when  battle  's  o'er, 
And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 
Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head,  . 
So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 
May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek  : 
'T  was  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 
And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 
The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine  ; 

But  far  apart,  —  and  well  it  were,  ' 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine,  — 

The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs  ;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarred  with  cold,  — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs  and  trees  and  wolves  behind  ; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track, 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire  ; 
Where'er  we  flew  they  followed  on, 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun  ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 
At  daybreak  winding  through  the  wood, 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
0,  how  I  wished  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 
And  perish  —  if  it  must  be  so  — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe  ! 
When  first  my  courser's  race  begun 
I  wished  the  goal  already  wron  ; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt  !  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain  roe  ; 

"  The  wood  was  passed  ;  't  was  more  than  noon, 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June  ; 
Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold,  — 
Prolonged  endurance  tames  the  bold  ; 

"  AVliat  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk  ? 

The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  rolled  round, 

I  seemed  to  sink  upon  the  ground  ; 

But  erred,  for  I  was  fastly  bound. 

My  heart  turned  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore, 

And  throbbed  awhile,  then  beat  no  more  ; 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel  ; 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 

And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes, 

Which  saw  no  farther  ;  he  who  dies 

(  an  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 


& 


& 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


a 


507 


I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake  ;  but  could  not  make 

My  senses  climb  up  from  below  ; 

I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea, 

When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee, 

At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 

And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 

My  undulating  life  was  as 

The  fancied  lights  that  Hitting  pass 

Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 

Fever  begins  upon  the  brain  ; 

But  soon  it  passed,  with  little  pain, 
But  a  confusion  worse  than  such  ; 
I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much, 

Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again  ; 

And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 

Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust  : 

No  matter  ;  I  have  bared  my  brow 

Full  in  Death's  face  —  before  —  and  now. 

"My  thoughts  came  back  :  where  was  I  ?   Cold 
And  numb  and  giddy  :  pulse  by  pulse 

Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold, 

And  throb  by  throb,  —  till  grown  a  pang 
Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse, 
My  blood  reflowed,  though  thick  and  chill  ; 

My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang  ; 
My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 

My  sight  returned,  though  dim  ;  alas  ! 

And  thickened,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 

Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh  ; 

There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky, 

Studded  witli  stars  ;  —  it  is  no  dream  ; 

The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream  ! 

The  bright,  broad  river's  gushing  tide 

Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  ami  wide, 

And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 

To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 

The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance, 

And  with  a  temporary  strength 
My  stiffened  limbs  were  rebaptized, 

My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 

And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 

Ami  onward  we  advance  ! 

We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 
A  haven  I  but  little  prized, 

For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 

And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 

How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 

In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 

I  could  not  tell  ;  I  scarcely  knew 

If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 

"  With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 
And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  Hank, 

The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 
Op  the  repelling  bank. 

We  gain  the  tn|)  ;  a  boundless  plain 

Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 


And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems, 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight  ; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

Or  scattered  spot  of  dusky  green, 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  naught  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate  ; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star  ; 
Not  even  an  ignis-fatims  rose 
To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes  ; 

That  very  cheat  had  cheered  me  then  ! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still, 
Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 

Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

"  Onward  we  went,  — but  slack  and  slow  ; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 

All  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour  ; 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  tameness  naught  availed,  — 
My  limbs  were  bound  ;  my  force  had  failed, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  efforts  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied, 

But  still  it  was  in  vain  ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er, 

Which  but  prolonged  their  pain  ; 
The  dizzy  race  seemed  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won  ; 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun,  — 

How  slow,  alas  !  he  came  ! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day  ; 
How  heavily  it  rolled  away,  — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars, 
And  called  the  radiance  from  their  cars, 
And  filled  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

"Up  rose  the  sun  ;  the  mists  were  curled 

Back  from  the  solitary  world 

Which  lay  around  —  behind  —  before. 

What   hooted  it  to  traverse  o'er 

Plain,  forest,  liver  ?     Man  nor  brute, 

Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 

Lav  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil  ; 

No  sign  of  travel,  —  none  of  toil  ; 

The  very  air  was  mute  ; 

And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 


tfr- 


-ff 


508 


n>n MS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


t 


Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice,  was  borne 
From  kerb  nor  thicket.     Many  a  werst, 
Tanting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  staggered  on  ; 
And  still  we  were,  or  seemed,  alone. 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 
N".\  no  !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop  ;  I  see  them  come  ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  ! 

I  strove  to  cry,  —  my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride  ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 
A  thousand  horse,  —  and  none  to  ride  ! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils,  never  stretched  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 
And  flanks  unscarred  by  spur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet ; 
The  sight  renerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answered  and  then  fell  : 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  limbs  immovable, 
His  first  and  last  career  is  done  ! 
On  came  the  troop,  —  they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong  : 
They  stop,  —  they  start,  —  they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there, 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seemed  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide  ; 
They  snort,  they  foam,  neigh,  swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 
Linked  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me,  and  there  we  lay 

The  dying  on  the  dead  ! 
I  little  deemed  another  day 
Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 

"And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 
I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round, 


With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me. 

"The  sun  was  sinking,  —  still  I  lay 
Chained  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed  ; 
I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay  ; 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need. 

No  hope  arose  of  being  freed  : 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky, 

And  there  between  me  and  the  sun 
I  saw  the  expecting  raven  fly, 
Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die 

Ere  his  repast  begun  ; 
He  flew,  and  perched,  then  flew  once  more, 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before  ; 
I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit, 
And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

I  could  have  smote,  but  lacked  the  strength  ; 
But  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand, 
And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand, 
The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise, 
Which  scarcely  could  be  called  a  voice, 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length. 
I  know  no  more,  —  my  latest  dream 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 

Which  fixed  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 
And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam, 
And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 
And  then  subsiding  back  to  death, 
And  then  again  a  little  breath, 
A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense, 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sparks  that  crossed  my  brain,  — 
A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 
A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 

"  I  woke.  —  Where  was  I  ?  —  Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  ? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  ? 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie  ? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance  ? 

T  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  longdraired  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought ; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free  : 
I  gazed  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be,  — 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast  : 


— EP 


fl- 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE  AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


509 


ft 


And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unsealed, 
She  smiled,  — and  I  essayed  to  speak, 

P>ut  failed,  —  and  she  approached,  and  made 

"With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free  ; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smoothed  the  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread, 

And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers,  —  ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet ! 
Even  music  followed  her  light  feet ; 

But  those  she  called  were  not  awake, 
And  she  went  forth  ;  but,  ere  she  passed, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast, 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say, 
That  I  had  naught  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call, 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return  :  while  she  was  gone, 
Methought  I  felt  too  much  alone. 

"  She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire,  — 
What  need  of  more  ?  —  I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest. 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain,  — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut,  — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again,  — 
Me,  ■ —  one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign  ! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 

His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain, 

Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness, 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone, 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne,  — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess  ? " 

BYRON. 


THE   CHILD   OF   ELLE. 

Ox  yonder  hill  a  castle  stands, 

With  walls  and  towers  bedight, 
And  yonder  lives  the  Child  of  Elle, 

A  young  and  comely  knight. 

» 

The  Child  <>f  Elle  to  his  garden  went, 

Ami  .stood  at  his  garden  pale, 
When,  lo  !  he  beheld  fair  Emmeline's  page 

Come  tripping  down  the  dale. 

The  Child  of  Elle  he  hied  him  thence, 

I  wis  he  Mood  not  still, 
And  soon  he  met  fair  Emmeline's  page 

Come  climbing  up  the  hill. 

"  Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  little  foot-page, 
Now  Christ  thee  save  and  see  1 


0,  tell  me  how  does  thy  lady  gay, 
And  what  may  thy  tidings  be  ? " 

"  My  lady  she  is  all  woe-begone, 
And  the  tears  they  fall  from  her  eyne  ; 

And  aye  she  laments  the  deadly  feud 
Between  her  house  and  thine. 

"And  here  she  sends  thee -a  silken  scarf 

Bedewed  with  many  a  tear, 
And  bids  thee  sometimes  think  on  her, 

Who  loved  thee  so  dear. 

"And  here  she  sends  thee  a  ring  of  gold, 

The  last  boon  thou  mayst  have, 
And  bids  thee  wear  it  for  her  sake, 

When  she  is  laid  in  grave. 

"For,  ah  !  her  gentle  heart  is  broke, 

And  in  grave  soon  must  she  be, 
Sith  her  father  hath  chose  her  a  new,  new  love, 

And  forbid  her  to  think  of  thee. 

"  Her  father  hath  brought  her  a  carlish  knight, 

Sir  John  of  the  north  countrey, 
And  within  three  days  she  must  him  wed, 

Or  he  vows  he  will  her  slay." 

"Now  hie  thee  back,  thou  little  foot-page, 

And  greet  thy  lady  from  me, 
And  tell  her  that  I,  her  own  true-love, 

Will  die,  or  set  her  free. 

"Now  hie  thee  back,  thou  little  foot-page, 

And  let  thy  fair  lady  know 
This  night  will  I  be  at  her  bower  window, 

Betide  me  weal  or  woe." 

The  boy  he  tripped,  the  boy  he  ran, 

He  neither  stint  nor  stayed 
Until  he  came  to  fair  Emmeline's  bower, 

When  kneeling  down  he  said,  — 

"  0  lady,  I  've  been  with  thy  own  true-love, 

And  he  greets  thee  well  by  me  ; 
This  night  will  he  be  at  thy  bower  window, 

And  die,  or  set  thee  free." 

Now  day  was  gone,  and  night  was  come, 

And  all  was  fast  asleep, 
All  save  the  Lady  Emmeline, 

Who  sat  in  her  bower  to  weep  : 

'And  soon  she  heard  her  true-love's  voice 

Low  whispering  at  the  wall, 
"Awake,  awake,  my  dear  ladye*, 
'T  is  I,  thy  true-love,  call. 

"Awake,  awake,  my  lady  dear, 

Come,  mount  this  fair  palfray  ! 
This  ladder  of  ropes  will  let  thee  down, 

I  '11  cany  thee  hence  away." 


Rd— 


-ff 


510 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


a 


"Now  nay,  now  nay,  thou  gentle,  knight, 

Now  nay,  this  may  not  he  ; 
For  aye  should  1  tint  my  maiden  fame, 

If  alone  I  should  wend  with  thee." 

"  0  lady,  thou  with  a  knight  so  true 

Mayst  safely  wend  alone, 
To  my  lady  mother  I  will  thee  bring, 

Where  marriage  shall  make  us  one." 

"  My  father  he  is  a  baron  bold, 

Of  lineage  proud  and  hie  ; 
And  what  would  he  say  if  his  daughter 

Away  with  a  knight  should  fly  ? 

"  Ah  !  well  I  wot,  he  never  would  rest, 
Nor  his  meat  should  do  him  no  good, 

Until  he  had  slain  thee,  Child  of  Elle, 
And  seen  thy  dear  heart's  blood." 

"  0  lady,  wert  thou  in  thy  saddle  set, 

And  a  little  space  him  fro, 
I  would  not  care  for  thy  cruel  father, 

Nor  the  worst  that  he  could  do. 

"  0  lady,  wert  thou  in  thy  saddle  set, 

And  once  without  this  wall, 
I  wrould  not  care  for  thy  cruel  father, 

Nor  the  worst  that  might  befall." 

Fair  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Emmeline  wept, 

And  aye  her  heart  was  woe  ; 
At  length  he  seized  her  lily-white  hand, 

And  down  the  ladder  he  drew  : 

And  thrice  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast, 

And  kissed  her  tenderlie  ; 
The  tears  that  fell  from  her  fair  eyes 

Ran  like  the  fountain  free. 

He  mounted  himself  on  his  steed  so  tall, 

And  her  on  a  fair  palfray, 
And  slung  his  bugle  about  his  neck, 

And  roundly  they  rode  away. 

All  this  beheard  her  own  damsel, 

In  her  bed  whereon  she  lay, 
Quoth  she,  "  My  lord  shall  know  of  this, 

So  I  shall  have  gold  and  fee. 

"  Awake,  awake,  thou  baron  bold  ! 

Awake,  my  noble  dame  ! 
Your  daughter  is  fled  with  the  Child  of  Elle 

To  do  the  deed  of  shame." 

The  baron  he  woke,  the  baron  he  rose, 

And  called  his  merry  men  all  : 
"And  come  thou  forth,  Sir  John  the  knight, 

Thy  lady  is  carried  to  thrall." 


Fair  Emmeline  scant  had  ridden  a  mile, 

A  mile  forth  of  the  town, 
"When  she  was  aware  of  her  father's  men 

Come  galloping  over  the  down  : 

And  foremost  came  the  carlish  knight, 
Sir  John  of  the  north  countrey  : 

' '  Now  stop,  now  stop,  thou  false  traitor, 
Nor  carry  that  lady  away. 

"  For  she  is  come  of  hie  lineage, 

And  was  of  a  lady  born, 
And  ill  it  beseems  thee,  a  false  churl's  son, 

To  carry  her  hence  to  scorn." 

"  Now  loud  thy  liest,  Sir  John  the  knight, 

Now  thou  doest  lie  of  me  ; 
A  knight  me  got,  and  a  lady  me  bore, 

So  never  did  none  by  thee. 

"  But  light  now  down,  my  lady  fair, 
Light  down,  and  hold  my  steed, 

While  I  and  this  discourteous  knight 
Do  try  this  arduous  deed. 

"  But  light  now  down,  my  dear  ladye. 

Light  down,  and  hold  my  horse, 
While  I  and  this  discourteous  knight 

Do  try  our  valor's  force." 

Fair  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Emmeline  wept, 

And  aye  her  heart  was  woe, 
While  'twist  her  love  and  the  carlish  knight 

Past  many  a  baleful  blow. 

The  Child  of  Elle  he  fought  so  well, 
As  his  weapon  he  waved  amain, 

That  soon  he  had  slain  the  carlish  knight, 
And  laid  him  upon  the  plain. 

And  now  the  baron  and  all  his  men 

Full  fast  approached  nigh  : 
Ah  !  what  may  Lady  Emmeline  do  ? 

'T  were  now  no  boot  to  fly. 

Her  lover,  he  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill, 
And  soon  he  saw  his  own  merry  men 

Come  riding  over  the  hill. 

"Now  hold  thy  hand,  thou  bold  baron, 

I  pray  thee  hold  thy  hand, 
Nor  ruthless  rend  two  gentle  hearts 

Fast  knit  in  true  love's  band. 

"  Thy  daughter  I  have  dearly  loved 

Full  long  and  many  a  day  ; 
But  with  such  love  as  holy  kirk 

Hath  freely  said  we  may. 


-ff 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


ft 


511 


"  0,  give  consent  she  may  be  mine, 

And  bless  a  faithful  pair  ; 
My  lands  and  livings  are  not  small, 

My  house  and  lineage  fair  ; 

"  My  mother  she  was  an  earl's  daughter, 
And  a  noble  knight  my  sire." — 

The  baron  he  frowned,  and  turned  away 
With  miekle  dole  and  ire. 

Fair  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Emmeline  wept, 

And  did  all  trembling  stand  : 
At  length  she  sprang  upon  her  knee, 

And  held  Ins  lifted  hand. 

"  Pardon,  my  lord  and  father  dear, 
This  fair  young  knight  and  me  : 

Trust  me,  but  for  the  carlish  knight 
1  never  had  fled  from  thee. 

"Oft  have  you  called  your  Emmeline 

Your  darling  and  your  joy  ; 
0,  let  not  then  your  harsh  resolves 

Your  Emmeline  destroy  !  " 

The  baron  he  stroked  his  dark-brown  cheek, 

And  turned  his  head  aside, 
To  wipe  away  the  starting  tear 

He  proudly  strove  to  hide. 

In  deep  revolving  thought  he  stood, 

And  mused  a  little  space  ; 
Tlun  raised  fair  Emmeline  from  the  ground, 

With  many  a  fond  embrace. 

"  Here  lake  her,  Child  of  Elle,"  he  said, 

And  gave  her  lily-white  hand  : 
"Here  take  my  dear  and  only  child, 

And  with  her  half  my  land. 

"Thy  father  once  mine  honor  wronged 

In  days  of  youthful  pride  ; 
Do  tlnm  the  injury  repair 

In  fondness  for  thy  bride. 

"  And  as  thou  love  her,  and  hold  her  dear, 
II raven  prosper  thee  and  thine  : 

And  now  my  blessing  wend  wi'  thee, 
My  lovely  Emmeline." 

ANONYMOUS. 


4.1- 


JAMES    FITZ-JAMES    AND    RODERICK 
DHtT. 

....  "I  am  by  promise  t ied 
To  match  me  with  this  mar  of  pride  : 
Twice  have  I  sought  Clan- Alpine's  glen 
In  peace  ;  hut  w lien  1  come  again, 
1  come  with  banner(  brand,  and  how, 
As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe. 


For  love-lorn  swain,  in  lady's  bower, 
Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  hour, 
As  I,  until  before  me  stand 
This  rebel  Chieftain  and  his  band." 

"  Have,  then,  thy  wish  !"  —  He  whistled  shrill, 

And  he  was  answered  from  the  hill  ; 

Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew, 

From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 

Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 

Bonnets  and  spears  and  bended  bows  ; 

On  right,  on  left,  above,  below, 

Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe  ; 

From  shingles  gray  their  lances  start, 

The  bracken  bush  sends  forth  the  dart, 

The  rushes  and  the  willow-wand 

Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand, 

And  every  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 

To  plaided  warrior  armed  for  strife. 

That  whistle  garrisoned  the  glen 

At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men, 

As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 

A  subterranean  host  had  given. 

Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will, 

All  silent  there  they  stood,  and  still. 

Like  the  loose  crags  whose  threatening  mass 

Lay  tottering  o'er  the  hollow  pass, 

As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 

Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge, 

With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung, 

Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 

The  Mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 

Along  Benledi's  living  side, 

Then  fixed  his  eye  and  sable  brow 

Full  on  Fitz-James  :    "  How  say'st  thou  now? 

These  are  Clan-Alpine's  warriors  true  ; 

And,  Saxon,  —  I  am  Roderick  Dim  !  " 

Fitz-James  was  brave  ;  —  though  to  his  heart 

The  life-blood  thrilled  with  sudden  start, 

lie  manned  himself  with  dauntless  air, 

Returned  the  Chief  bis  haughty  stare, 

His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore, 

And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before:  — 

"Come  one,  come  all  !  this  roek  shall  fly 

From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I." 

Sir  Roderick  marked,  —and  in  his  eves 

Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise, 

And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 

In  foeinen  worthy  of  their  steel. 

Short  space  he  stood,  ■     then  waved  his  hand  : 

Mown  sunk  the  disappearing  hand  ; 

Each  warrior  vanished  where  he  stood, 

In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  ot  wood  : 

Sunk  brand  and  spear,  and  bended  how, 

I  d  osiers  pale  and  copses  low  : 

It  Beemed  as  if  their  mother  Earth 

Bad  swallowed  Up  her  warlike  birth. 


# 


t& 


512 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND    RURAL   SPORTS. 


■a 


The  wind's  last  breath  had  tossed  in  air 

Pennon  and  plaid  and  plumage  fair,  — 

The  next  hut  swept  a  lone  hillside. 

Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide  ; 

The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  hack, 

From  spear  and  glaive,  from  targe  and  jack,  — 

The  next,  all  unrellected,  shone 

On  bracken  green,  and  cold  gray  stone. 

Fitz-James  looked  round,  —  yet  scarce  believed 

The  witness  that  his  sight  received  ; 

Such  apparition  well  might  seem 

Delusion  of  a  dreadful  dream. 

Sir  Roderick  in  suspense  he  eyed, 

And  to  his  look  the  Chief  replied  : 

"  Fear  naught  —  nay,  that  1  need  not  say  — 

Rut  —  doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 

Thou  art  my  guest ;  —  I  pledged  my  word 

As  far  as  Coilantogle  ford  : 

Nor  would  I  call  a  clansman's  brand 

For  aid  against  one  valiant  hand, 

Though  on  our  strife  lay  every  vale 

Rent  by  the  Saxon  from  the  Gael. 

So  move  we  on  ;  —  I  only  meant 

To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant, 

Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue 

Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dim." 

They  moved  ;  —  I  said  Fitz-James  was  brave, 

As  ever  knight  that  belted  glaive  ; 

Yet  dare  not  say  that  now  his  blood 

Kept  on  its  wont  and  tempered  flood, 

As,  following  Roderick's  stride,  he  drew 

That  seeming  lonesome  pathway  through, 

Which  yet,  by  fearful  proof,  was  rife 

With  lances,  that,  to  take  his  life, 

Waited  but  signal  from  a  guide, 

So  late  dishonored  and  defied. 

Ever,  by  stealth,  his  eye  sought  round 

The  vanished  guardians  of  the  ground, 

And  still,  from  copse  and  heather  deep, 

Fancy  saw  spear  and  broadsword  peep, 

And  in  the  plover's  shrilly  strain 

The  signal  whistle  heard  again. 

Nor  breathed  he  free  till  far  behind 

The  pass  was  left  ;  for  then  they  wind 

Along  a  wide  and  level  green, 

Where  neither  tree  nor  tuft  was  seen, 

Nor  rush  nor  bush  of  broom  was  near, 

To  hide  a  bonnet  or  a  spear. 

The  Chief  in  silence  strode  before, 

And  reached  that  torrent's  sounding  shore, 

Which,  daughter  of  three  mighty  lakes, 

From  Vennachar  in  silver  breaks, 

Sweeps  through  the  plain,  and  ceaseless  mines 

On  Boehastle  the  mouldering  lines, 

Where  Rome,  the  Empress  of  the  world, 

Of  yore  her  eagle  wings  unfurled. 

And  here  his  course  the  Chieftain  stayed, 


Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid, 

And  to  the  Lowland  warrior  said  : 

"  Bold  Saxon  !  to  his  promise  just, 

Vich-Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust. 

This  murderous  Chief,  this  ruthless  man, 

This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan, 

Hath  led  thee  safe  through  watch  and  ward, 

Far  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 

Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 

A  Chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 

See,  here,  all  vantageless  1  stand, 

Armed,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand  ; 

For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford, 

And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword." 

The  Saxon  paused:    "  1  ne'er  delayed, 

When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade  ; 

Nay  more,  brave  Chief,  I  vowed  thy  death  : 

Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith, 

And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 

A  better  meed  have  well  deserved  : 

Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone  ? 

Are  there  no  means  ? "     "  No,  Stranger,  none  1 

And  hear,  — to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal,  — 

The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel  ; 

For  thus  spoke  Fate,  by  prophet  bred 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead  : 

'  Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life, 

His  party  conquers  in  the  strife.'  ' 

"  Then,  by  my  word,"  the  Saxon  said, 

"The  riddle  is  already  read. 

Seek  yonder  brake  beneath  the  cliff,  — 

There  lies  Red  Murdoch,  stark  and  stiff. 

Thus  Fate  hath  solved  her  prophecy, 

Then  yield  to  Fate,  and  not  to  me. 

To  James,  at  Stirling,  let  us  go, 

When,  if  thou  wilt  be  still  his  foe, 

Or  if  the  King  shall  not  agree 

To  giant  thee  grace  and  favor  free, 

I  plight  mine  honor,  oath,  and  word, 

That,  to  thy  native  strengths  restored, 

With  each  advantage  shalt  thou  stand, 

That  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land." 

Dark  lightning  flashed  from  Roderick's  eye  : 
"Soars  thy  presumption,  then,  so  high, 
Because  a  wretched  kern  ye  slew, 
Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Dhu  ? 
He  yields  not,  he,  to  man  nor  fate  ! 
Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate  :  — 
My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge. 
Not  yet  prepared  ?  —  By  Heaven  1  change 
My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valor  light 
As  that  of  some  vain  carpet  knight, 
Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care, 
And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 
A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair." 
"I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word  ! 
It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  my  sword  ; 


-tr— 


-w 


tfr 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


ft 


513 


For  I  have  sworn  this  braid  to  stain 

In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 

Now,  truce,  farewell  !  and  ruth,  begone  !  — 

Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone, 

Proud  Chief  !  can  courtesy  be  shown  ; 

Though  not  from  copse,  or  heath,  or  cairn, 

Start  at  my  whistle  clansmen  stern, 

Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 

Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast. 

But  fear  not  —  doubt  not  —  which  thou  wilt  — 

We  try  this  quarrel  hilt  to  hilt." 

Then  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew, 

Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw, 

Each  looked  to  sun  and  stream  and  plain, 

As  what  they  ne'er  might  see  again  ; 

Then,  foot  and  point  and  eye  opposed, 

In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 

Ill  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw, 
Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull-hide 
Had  death  so  often  dashed  aside  ; 
For,  trained  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 
Fitz-James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield. 
He  practised  every  pass  and  ward, 
To  thrust,  to  strike,  to  feint,  to  guard  ; 
While  less  expert,  though  stronger  far, 
The  Gael  maintained  unequal  war. 
Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood, 
And  thrice  the  Saxon  blade  drank  blood  : 
No  stinted  draught,  no  scanty  tide, 
The  gushing  floods  the  tartans  dyed. 
Fine-  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain, 
And  showered  his  blows  like  wintry  rain  ; 
And,  as  firm  rock  or  castle-roof 
Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof, 
Tlir  foe,  invulnerable  still, 
foiled  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill  ; 
Till,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand 
Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand, 
Ami,  backwards  borne  upon  the  lea. 
Brought  the  proud  Chieftain  to  his  knee. 

"  Now  yield  thee,  or,  by  Him  who  made 
The  world,  thy  heart's  Mood  dyes  my  blade  !  " 
"Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  1  defy  ! 
Let  recreant  yield,  who  fears  to  die." 
Like  adder  darting  from  his  roil, 
Like  wolf  thai  dashes  through  the  toil, 
Like  mountain-cat  who  guards  her  young, 
Full  at  Fitz-James's  throat  he  sprang; 
Received,  hut  recked  not  of  a  wound, 
And  locked  his  arms  his  foeman  round. 
Now,  gallanl  Saxon,  hold  thine  own  ! 
No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  tin-own  ! 
That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel 
Through  liars  of  brass  and  triple  steel  ! 
They  tug,  they  strain  '  down,  downtheygo, 
The  Gael  above,  fit/-. lames  below. 


The  Chieftain's  gripe  his  throat  compressed, 
His  knee  was  planted  in  his  breast ; 
His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw, 
Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew, 
From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight, 
Then  gleamed  aloft  his  dagger  bright ! 
But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 
The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide, 
And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came, 
To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game  ; 
For,  while  the  dagger  gleamed  on  high, 
Reeled  soul  and  sense,  reeled  brain  and  eye. 
Down  came  the  blow  !  but  in  the  heath 
The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. 
The  struggling  foe  may  now  unclasp 
The  fainting  Chiefs  relaxing  grasp  ; 
Unwounded  from  the  dreadful  close, 
But  breathless  all,  Fitz-James  arose. 

He  faltered  thanks  to  Heaven  for  life, 

Redeemed,  unhoped,  from  desperate  strife  ; 

Next  on  his  foe  his  look  he  cast, 

Whose  every  gasp  appeared  his  last  ; 

In  Roderick's  gore  he  dipped  the  braid,  — 

"  Poor  Blanche  !  thy  wrongs  are  dearly  paid 

Yet  with  thy  foe  must  die,  or  live, 

The  praise  that  faith  and  valor  give." 

With  that  he  blew  a  bugle  note, 

Undid  the  collar  from  his  throat, 

Unbonneted,  and  by  the  wave 

Sat  down  his  brow  and  hands  to  lave. 

Then  faint  afar  are  heard  the  feet 

Of  rushing  steeds  in  gallop  fleet  ; 

The  sounds  increase,  and  now  are  seen 

Four  mounted  squires  in  Lincoln  green  ; 

Two  who  bear  lance,  and  two  who  lead, 

By  loosened  rein,  a  saddled  steed  ; 

Each  onward  held  his  headlong  course, 

And  by  Fitz-James  reined  up  his  horse,  — 

With  wonder  viewed  the  bloody  spot,  — 

"  Exclaim  not,  gallants  !  question  not,  — 

You,  Herbert  and  Luffness,  alight, 

And  bind  the  wounds  of  yonder  knight ; 

Let  the  gray  palfrey  bear  his  weight, 

We  destined  for  a  fairer  freight, 

And  bring  him  on  to  Stirling  straight ; 

I  will  before  at  better  speed, 

To  seek  fresh  horse  and  fitting  weed. 
The  sun  tides  high  ;       1  must  be  boune 
To  see  the  archer-game  at   noon  ; 

But  lightly  Bayard  clears  the  lea. 
I  )e  Vaux  and  Herries,  follow  me. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


WAKEN,    LORDS   AND   LADIES   GAY. 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day  ; 


<& 


4=r 


514 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


-ft 


All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 

With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear  ! 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  arc  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrily,  merrily  mingle  they, 

"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 
Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming, 
And  foresters  have  busy  been 
To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green  ; 
Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 
"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away  ; 

We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 

Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size  ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed  ; 

You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay  ; 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we  ; 
Time,  stern  huntsman  !  who  can  balk, 
Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk  ? 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


MY   HEART  'S   IN   THE   HIGHLANDS. 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here  ; 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer  ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birthplace  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth  ; 
Wherever  1  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 

Farewell  to   the   mountains  high   covered  with 

snow  ; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below  ; 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods  ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 
My  heart  \s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here  ; 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer  ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

ROBKKT    BURNS. 


THE   HUNTER'S   SONG. 

Rise  !     Sleep  no  more  !     'T  is  a  noble  morn. 
The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn, 
And  the  frost  shrinks  back,  like  a  beaten  hound, 
Under  the  steaming,  steaming  ground. 
Behold  where  the  billowy  clouds  flow  by, 
And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky  ! 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady.  —  So,  ho  ! 
I  'm  gone,  like  a  dart  from  the  Tartar's  bow. 
Hark,  hark  !  —  Who  calleth  the  maiden  Morn 
From  Jier  sleep  in  tlte  woods  and  the  stubble  corn  ? 

Tlve  horn,  —  tlte  Jwrn  ! 
Tlie  merry,  sweet  ring  of  tlie  hunter's  horn. 

Now,  through  the  copse  where  the  fox  is  found, 
And  over  the  stream  at  a  mighty  bound, 
And  over  the  high  lands,  and  over  the  low, 
O'er  furrows,  o'er  meadows,  the  hunters  go  ! 
Away  !  —  as  a  hawk  flies  full  at  his  prey, 
So  flieth  the  hunter,  away,  —  away  ! 
From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of  sun, 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and  —  the  day  is  done  ! 
Hark,  hark! —  J V hat  sound  on  tlie  wind  is  borne  1 
'  T  is  the  conquering  voice  of  tlie  hunter  s  horn  ! 

The  liorn,  —  tlie  liorn  ! 
The  merry,  bold  voice  of  tlie  hunter's  horn. 

Sound  !     Sound  the  horn  !     To  the  hunter  good 

What 's  the  gully  deep  or  the  roaring  flood  ? 

Right  over  he  bounds,  as  the  wild  stag  bounds, 

At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 

0,  what  delight  can  a  mortal  lack, 

When  he  once  is  firm  on  his  horse's  back, 

With  his  stirrups  short,  and  his  snaffle  strong, 

And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning  song  ? 

Hark,  liark  !  —  Now,  home  !  and  dream  till  morn 

Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound  of  the  hunter's  horn  ! 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  ! 

0,  the  sound  of  all  sounds  is  the  hunter's  horn  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


THE   STAG   HUNT. 


THE    SEASON'S. 


The  stag  too,  singled  from  the  herd  where  long 
He  ranged  tlie  branching  monarch  of  the  shades, 
Before  the  tempest  drives.     At  first,  in  speed 
He,  sprightly,  puts  his  faith  ;  and,  roused  by  fear, 
Gives  all  his  swift  aerial  soul  to  flight. 
Against  the  breeze  he  darts,  that  way  the  more 
To  leave  the  lessening  murderous  cry  behind  : 
Deception  short  !  though  fleeter  than  the  winds 
Blown  o'er  the  keen-aired  mountain  by  the  north, 
He  bursts  the  thickets,  glances  through  the  glades, 
And  plunges  deep  into  the  wildest  wood,  — 
If  slow,  yet  sure,  adhesive  to  the  track. 


±T 


a~ 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


515 


a 


Hot-steaming,  up  behind  him  come  again 
The  inhuman  rout,  and  from  the  shady  depth 
Expel  him,  circling  through  his  every  shift. 
He  sweeps  the  forest  oft  ;  and  sobbing  sees 
The  glades,  mild  opening  to  the  golden  day, 
Where,  in  kind  contest,  with  his  butting  friends 
He  wont  to  struggle,  or  his  loves  enjoy. 
Oft  in  the  full-descending  flood  he  tries 
To  lose  the  scent,  and  lave  his  burning  sides ; 
Oft  seeks  the  herd  ;  the  watchful  herd,  alarmed, 
With  selfish  care  avoid  a  brother's  woe. 
What  shall  he  do  ?     His  once  so  vivid  nerves, 
So  full  of  buoyant  spirit,  now  no  more 
Inspire  the  course  ;  but  fainting  breathless  toil, 
Sick,  seizes  on  his  heart :  he  stands  at  bay  ; 
And  puts  his  last  weak  refuge  in  despair. 
The  big  round  tears  run  down  his  dappled  face  ; 
He  groans  in  anguish  ;  while  the  growling  pack, 
Blood-happy,  hang  at  his  fair  jutting  chest, 
And  mark  his  beauteous  checkered  sides  with  gore. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


BETH   GELERT. 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound, 
And  cheerily  smiled  the  morn  ; 

And  many  a  brach,  and  many  a  hound, 
Obeyed  Llewelyn's  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a  louderblast, 

And  gave  a  lustier  cheer, 
"Come,  Gelert,  come,  wert  never  last 

Llewelyn's  horn  to  hear. 

"0,  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam, 

The  flower  of  all  his  race  ; 
So  true,  so  brave,  —  a  lamb  at  home, 

A  lion  in  the  chase  ? " 

In  sooth,  he  was  a  peerless  hound, 

The  gift  of  royal  John  ; 
But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  found, 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 

The  chase  of  hart  and  hare  ; 
And  scanl  ami  small  the  booty  proved, 

For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased,  Llewelyn  homeward  hied, 

When,  near  the  portal  seat, 
His  truant  GGlerl  lie  espied, 

Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But,  when  be  gained  his  castle-door, 

Aghasl  the  chieftain  stood  ; 
Tli"  hound  all  o'er  was  smeared  with  gore  ; 

His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 


Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise  ; 

Unused  such  looks  to  meet, 
His  favorite  checked  his  joyful  guise, 

And  crouched,  and  licked  his  feet. 

Onward,  in  haste,  Llewelyn  passed, 

And  on  went  Gelert  too  ; 
And  still,  where'er  his  eyes  he  cast, 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view. 

O'erturned  his  infant's  bed  he  found, 
With  blood-stained  covert  rent ; 

And  all  around  the  walls  and  ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  called  his  child,  —  no  voice  replied,  — 

He  searched  with  terror  wild  ; 
Blood,  blood  he  found  on  every  side, 

But  nowhere  found  his  child. 

' '  Hell-hound  !  my  child  's  by  thee  devoured, ' 

The  frantic  father  cried  ; 
And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 

He  plunged  in  Gelert's  side. 

Aroused  by  Gelert's  dying  yell, 

Some  slumberer  wakened  nigh  : 
What  words  the  parent's  joy  could  tell 

To  hear  his  infant's  cry  ! 

Concealed  beneath  a  tumbled  heap 

His  hurried  search  had  missed, 
All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep, 

The  cherub  boy  he  kissed. 

Nor  scathe  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  dread, 

But,  the  same  couch  beneath, 
Lay  a  gaunt  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead, 

Tremendous  still  in  death. 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn's  pain  ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear  ; 
His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain 

To  save  Llewelyn's  heir. 

WILLIAM   R.   SPENCER. 


THE  STAG   HUNT. 

FROM    "THE   LADY   OF   THE    LAKE." 

The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill, 

Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill, 

And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 

In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade  ; 

But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 

Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head, 

The  deep-mouthed  bloodhound's  heavy  bay 

Resounded  up  the  rocky  way, 

And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne, 

Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 


ta- 


-ff 


510 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE    AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


ft 


As  Chief  who  hears  his  warder  call, 

"  To  anus  !  the  foemeii  storm  the  wall," 

The  antlered  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprung  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

But,  ere  his  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook  ; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high 

Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky  ; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listened  to  the  cry, 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh  ; 

Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared, 

With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared, 

And,  stretching  forward  free  and  fir, 

Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 

Yelled  on  the  view  the  opening  pack  ; 
Rock,  glen,  and  cavern  paid  them  back  ; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awakened  mountain  gave  response. 
A  hundred  dogs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 
Clattered  a  hundred  steeds  along, 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rung  out, 
A  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout  ; 
With  hark  and  whoop  and  wild  halloo. 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe  ; 
Close  in  her  covert  cowered  the  doe  ; 
The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high, 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye, 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Fahit,  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Returned  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn, 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still, 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern,  where,  't  is  told, 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old  ; 
For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won, 
High  in  his  pathway  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stayed  perforce, 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse, 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer, 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near  ; 
So  shrewdly  on  the  mountain-side 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 

Tin-  noble  stag  was  pausing  now 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow, 
Where  broad  extended,  fir  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wandered  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor, 
And  pondered  refuge  from  his  toil, 
By  far  Loehard  or  Aberfoyle. 


But  nearer  was  the  copsewood  gray 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch-Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine-trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Benvenue. 
Fresh  vigor  with  the  hope  returned, 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurned, 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race, 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 

'T  were  long  to  tell  wdiat  steeds  gave  o'er, 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cam  bus-more  ; 
What  reins  were  tightened  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air  ; 
Who  flagged  upon  Bochastle's  heath, 
Who  shunned  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith,  — 
For  twice  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  gallant  stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far, 
That  reached  the  lake  of  Vennachar  ; 
And  when  the  Brigg  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  horseman  rode  alone. 

Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal, 

That  horseman  piled  the  scourge  and  steel ; 

For,  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil, 

Embossed  with  foam,  and  dark  with  soil, 

While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew, 

The  laboring  stag  strained  full  in  view. 

Two  dogs  of  black  St.  Hubert's  breed, 

Unmatched  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed, 

Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came, 

And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game  ; 

For,  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch, 

Vindictive  toiled  the  bloodhounds  stanch  ; 

Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain, 

Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain. 

Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake, 

Between  the  precipice  and  brake, 

O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

The  Hunter  marked  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary, 
And  deemed  the  stag  must  turn  to  bay, 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barred  the  way  ; 
Already  glorying  in  the  prize, 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes  ; 
For  the  death-wound  and  death-halloo 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  whinyard  drew  ; 
But  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared, 
The  wily  quarry  shunned  the  shock, 
And  tinned  him  from  the  opposing  rock  ; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen, 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken, 
In  the  deep  Trosachs'  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There,  while  close  couched,  the  thicket  shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild  flowers  on  his  head, 


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a 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


517 


ft 


He  heard,  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain, 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yelled  again. 

Close  on  the  hounds  the  hunter  came, 
To  cheer  them  on  the  vanished  game  ; 
But,  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell, 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein, 
For  the  good  steed,  his  labors  o'er, 
Stretched  his  still'  limbs,  to  rise  no  more  ; 
Then,  touched  with  pity  and  remorse, 
He  sorrowed  o'er  the  expiring  horse. 
"  I  little  thought,  when  first  thy  rein 
I  shuked  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  Highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed  ! 
Woe  worth  the  chase,  woe  worth  the  day, 
That  costs  thy  life,  my  gallant  gray  !  " 

Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds, 
I'rom  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 
Biek  limped,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace, 
Tie  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase  ; 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  pressed, 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest ; 
•But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolonged  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  cwlets  started  from  their  dream, 
The  eigles  answered  with  their  scream, 
Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast, 
Till  echo  seemed  an  answering  blast ; 
And  on  the  Hunter  hied  his  way, 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day  ; 
Yet  often  paused,  so  strange  the  road, 
So  wondrous  were  the  scenes  it  showed. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


IAY  OF  THE  IMPRISONED  HUNTSMAN. 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 
My  idle  greyhound  loathes  his  food, 
My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall, 
And  1  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
1  wish  I  were  as  I  have  been, 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forest  green, 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free, 
For  thai  's  t lie  life  is  meet  for  me. 

I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time 
From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime, 
Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl, 
Inch  after  inch,  along  the  wall. 
The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring, 
The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing  ; 
These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be, 
Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 


No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise, 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes, 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forest  through. 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew  ; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet, 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee,  — 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me  ! 

Sir  Walter  scott. 


THE   ARAB   TO   HIS    FAVORITE    STEED. 


My  beautiful  !  my  beautiful  !  that  standest  meek- 
ly by, 
With  thy  proudly  arched  and  glossy  neck,  and 

dark  and  fiery  eye, 
Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now,  with  all  thy 

winged  speed  ; 
I  may  not  mount  on  thee  again,  —  thou  'rt  sold, 

my  Arab  steed  ! 
Fret  not  with  that  impatient  hoof,  —  snuff  not  the 

breezy  wind,  — 
The  farther  that  thou  fliest  now,  so  far  am  I  behind  ; 
The  stranger  hath  thy  bridle-rein,  —  thy  master 

hath  h  is  gold,  — 
Fleet-limbed   and   beautiful,   farewell ;    thou  'rt 

sold,  my  steed,  thou  'rt  sold. 

n. 

Farewell  !  those  free,  untired  limbs  full  many  a 

mile  must  roam, 
To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry  sky  which  clouds 

the  stranger's  home  ; 
Some  other  hand,  less  fond,  must  now  thy  corn 

and  bed  prepare, 
Thysilkymane,  I  braided  once,  must  be  another's 

care  ! 
The  morning  sun  shall  dawn  again,   but  never 

more  with  thee 
Shall  I  gallop  through  the  desert  paths,  where 

we  were  wont  to  he  ; 
Evening  shall  darken  on  the  earth,  and  o'er  the 

sandy  plain 
Some  other  steed,  with  slower  step,  shall  bear  me 

home  again. 

in. 

Yes,  thou  must  go  !  the  wild,  free  breeze,  the  bril- 
liant sun  and  sky, 

Thy  master's  house,  —  from  all  of  these  my  exiled 
one  must  fly  ; 

Thy  proud  dark  eye  will  grow  less  proud,  thy 
step  become  less  Beet, 

And  vainly  shall  thou  arch  thy  neck,  thy  mas- 
ter's hand  to  meet. 


tB- 


tf 


ft 


518 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


■ft 


Only  in   sleep  shall    I    behold   that    dark   eye, 

glancing  bright ;  — 
Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again  that  step  so  firm 

and  light  ; 
And  when  I  raise  my  dreaming  arm  to  check  or 

cheer  thy  speed, 
Then  must  I,  starting,  wake  to  feel,  — thou'rt 

sold,  my  Arab  steed  ! 

IV. 

Ah  !  rudely,  then,  unseen byme,  some  cruel  hand 

may  chide, 
Till  foam-wreaths  lie,  like  crested  waves,  along 

thy  panting  side  : 
And  the  rich  blood  that 's  in  thee  swells,  in  thy 

indignant  pain, 
Till  careless  eyes,  which  rest  on  thee,  may  count 

each  starting  vein. 
Will  they  ill-use  thee  ?    If  I  thought  —  but  no, 

it  cannot  be,  — 
Thou  art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curbed  ;  so  gentle, 

yet  so  free  : 
And  yet,  if  haply,  when  thou  'rt  gone,  my  lonely 

heart  should  yearn,  — 
Can  the  hand  which  casts  thee  from  it  now  com- 
mand thee  to  return  ? 


Return  I  alas  !  my  Arab  steed  !  what  shall  thy 

master  do, 
"When  thou,  who  wast  his  all  of  joy,  hast  vanished 

from  his  view  ? 
"When   the  dim  distance  cheats  mine   eye,  and 

through  the  gathering  tears 
Thy  bright  form,  for  a  moment,  like  the  false 

mirage  appears  ; 
Slow  and  unmounted  shall  I  roam,  with  weary 

step  alone, 
Where,  with  fleet  step  and  joyous  bound,  thou 

oft  hast  borne  me  on  ; 
And  sitting  down  by  that  green  well,  I  '11  pause 

and  sadly  think, 
"  It  was  here  he  bowed  his  glossy  neck  when  last 

I  saw  him  drink  !  " 

VI. 

When  last  Isaic  thee  drink  I  —  Away !  the  fevered 

dream  is  o'er,  — 
I  could  not  live  a  day,  and  knoiv  that  we  should 

meet  no  more  ! 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful  !  —  for  hunger's 

power  is  strong,  — 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful  !    but  I  have 

loved  too  lone;. 
Who  said  that  I  had  given  thee  up  ?  who  said 

that  thou  wast  sold  ? 
'T  is  false,  — 'tis  false,  my  Arab  steed  !  I  fling 

them  back  their  gold  ! 


Thus,  thus,  I  leap  upon  thy  back,  and  scour  the 

distant  plains  ; 
Away  !  who  overtakes  us  now  shall  claim  thee  for 

his  pains  ! 


Caroline  E.  Norton. 


SLEIGH   SONG. 

Jingle,  jingle,  clear  the  way, 
'T  is  the  merry,  merry  sleigh, 
As  it  swiftly  scuds  along 
Hear  the  burst  of  happy  song, 
See  the  gleam  of  glances  bright, 
Flashing  o'er  the  pathway  white. 
Jingle,  jingle,  past  it  flies, 
Sending  shafts  from  hooded  eyes,  — 
Roguish  archers,  1  '11  be  bound, 
Little  heeding  who  they  wound  ; 
See  them,  with  capricious  pranks, 
Ploughing  now  the  drifted  banks  ; 
Jingle,  jingle,  mid  the  glee 
"Who  among  them  cares  for  me  ? 
Jingle,  jingle,  on  they  go, 
Capes  and  bonnets  white  with  snow, 
Not  a  single  robe  they  fold 
To  protect  them  from  the  cold  ; 
Jingle,  jingle,  mid  the  storm, 
Fun  and  frolic  keep  them  warm  ; 
Jingle,  jingle,  clown  the  hills, 
O'er  the  meadows,  past  the  mills, 
Now  't  is  slow,  and  now  't  is  fast  ; 
Winter  will  not  always  last. 
Jingle,  jingle,  clear  the  way, 
'Tis  the  merry,  merry  sleigh. 

g.  w.  PETTEE. 


OUR   SKATER   BELLE. 

Along  the  frozen  lake  she  comes 
In  linking  crescents,  light  and  fleet ; 

The  ice-imprisoned  Undine  hums 
A  welcome  to  her  little  feet. 

I  see  the  jaunty  hat,  the  plume 

Swerve  bird-like  in  the  joyous  gale,  — 

The  cheeks  lit  up  to  burning  bloom, 

The  young  eyes  sparkling  through  the  veil. 

The  quick  breath  parts  her  laughing  lips, 

The  white  neck  shines  through  tossing  curls  ; 

Her  vesture  gently  sways  and  dips, 
As  on  she  speeds  in  shell-like  whorls. 

Men  stop  and  smile  to  see  her  go  ; 

They  gaze,  they  smile  in  pleased  surprise  ; 
They  ask  her  name  ;  they  long  to  show 

Some  silent  friendship  in  their  eyes. 


<&- 


9 


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POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


■a 


519 


She  glances  not ;  she  passes  on  ; 

Her  steely  footfall  quicker  rings  ; 
She  guesses  not  the  benison 

Which  follows  her  on  noiseless  wings. 

Smooth  be  her  ways,  secure  her  tread 

Along  the  devious  lines  of  life, 

From  grace  to  grace  successive  led,  — 

A  noble  maiden,  nobler  wife  ! 

Anonymous. 


A   CANADIAN    BOAT-SONG. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 

Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep  time. 

Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 

We  '11  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 

Row,  brothers,  row  !  the  stream  runs  fast, 

The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight  's  past ! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ?  — 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl. 
But  when  the  wind  blows  olf  the  shore 
0,  sweetly  we  '11  rest  our  weary  oar  ! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow  !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight  's  past ! 

Utawa's  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 

Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 

Saint  of  this  green  isle,  hear  our  prayers,  — 

0,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs  ! 

Blow,  breezes,  blow  !  the  stream  runs  fast, 

The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight  's  past  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE   PLEASURE-BOAT. 

Come,  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go  ! 

They're  seated  side  by  side  ; 
Wave  chases  wave  in  pleasant  flow  ; 

The  bay  is  fair  and  wide. 

The.  ripples  lightly  tap  the  boat, 
Loose  !     Give  her  to  the  wind  ! 

She  shoots  ahead  ;  they  're  all  afloat ; 
The  strand  is  far  behind. 

No  danger  reach  so  fair  a  crew  ! 

Thou  goddess  of  the  foam, 
I  '11  ever  pay  thee  worship  due, 

If  thou  wilt  bring  them  home. 

Fair  ladies,  fairer  than  the  spray 
The  prow  is  dashing  wide, 

Soft  breezes  take  you  on  your  way, 
Soft  flow  the  blessed  tide. 


0,  might  I  like  those  breezes  be, 

And  touch  that  arching  brow, 
I  'd  dwell  forever  on  the  sea 

Where  ye  are  floating  now. 

The  boat  goes  tilting  on  the  waves  ; 

The  waves  go  tilting  by  ; 
There  dips  the  duck,  —  her  back  she  laves  ; 

O'erhead  the  sea-gulls  fly. 

Now,  like  the  gulls  that  dart  for  prey, 

The  little  vessel  stoops  ; 
Now,  rising,  shoots  along  her  way, 

Like  them,  in  easy  swoops. 

The  sunlight  falling  on  her  sheet, 

It  glitters  like  the  drift, 
Sparkling,  in  scorn  of  summer's  heat, 

High  up  some  mountain  rift. 

The  winds  are  fresh  ;  she  's  driving  fast 

Upon  the  bending  tide  ; 
The  crinkling  sail,  and  crinkling  mast, 

Go  with  her  side  by  side. 

Why  dies  the  breeze  away  so  soon  ? 

Why  hangs  the  pennant  down  ? 
The  sea  is  glass  ;  the  sun  at  noon.  — 

Nay,  lady,  do  not  frown  ; 

For,  see,  the  winged  fisher's  plume 

Is  painted  on  the  sea  ; 
Below,  a  cheek  of  lovely  bloom 

Whose  eyes  look  up  to  thee. 

She  smiles  ;  thou  need'st  must  smile  on  her. 

And,  see,  beside  her  face 
A  rich,  white  cloud  that  doth  not  stir  : 

What  beauty,  and  what  grace  ! 

And  pictured  beach  of  yellow  sand, 

And  peaked  rock  and  hill, 
Change  the  smooth  sea  to  fairydand  ; 

How  lovely  and  how  still  ! 

From  that  far  isle  the  thresher's  flail 

Strikes  close  upon  the  ear  ; 
The  leaping  fish,  the  swinging  sail 

Of  yonder  sloop,  sound  near. 

The  parting  sun  sends  out  a  glow 

Across  the  placid  bay, 
Touching  with  glory  all  the  show,  — 

A  breeze  !  Up  helm  !  Away  I 

Careening  to  the  wind,  they  reach, 

With  laugh  and  call,  the  shore. 

They  've  left  their  footprints  on  the  beach, 

But  them  I  hear  no  more. 

Richard  Hbnky  Dana. 


-b- 


W 


520 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE  AND    RURAL   SPORTS. 


ft 


THE   ANGLER'S   WISH. 

I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be, 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me  ; 

To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 

I,  with  my  angle,  would  rejoice, 

Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle-dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love  ; 

Or,  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west-wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty  ;  please  my  mind, 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  washed  off  by  April  showers  ; 
Here,  hear  my  kenna  sing  a  song  : 
There,  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young, 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest ; 

Here,  give  my  weary  spirits  rest, 

And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love. 

Thus,  free  from  lawsuits,  and  the  noise 
Of  princes'  courts,  I  would  rejoice ; 

Or,  with  my  Bryan  and  a  book, 
Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook  ; 
There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat ; 
There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 
There  bid  good  morning  to  next  day  ; 
There  meditate  my  time  away  ; 

And  angle  on  ;  and  beg  to  have 

A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

Izaak  Walton. 


ANGLING. 


FROM    "THE   SEASONS. 


Just  in  the  dubious  point,  where  with  the  pool 
Is  mixed  the  trembling  stream,  or  where  it  boils 
Around  the  stone,  or  from  the  hollowed  bank 
Reverted  plays  in  undulating  flow, 
There  throw,  nice-judging,  the  delusive  fly  ; 
And,  as  you  lead  it  round  in  artful  curve, 
With  eye  attentive  mark  the  springing  game. 
Straight  as  above  the  surface  of  the  flood 
They  wanton  rise,  or  urged  by  hunger  leap, 
Then  lix,  with  gentle  twitch,  the  barbed  hook  ; 
Some  lightly  tossing  to  the  grassy  bank, 
And  to  the  shelving  shore  slow  dragging  some, 
With  various  hand  proportioned  to  their  force. 
If  yet  too  young,  and  easily  deceived, 
A  worthless  prey  scarce  bends  your  pliant  rod, 
Him,  piteous  of  his  youth,  and  the  short  space 
He  has  enjoyed  the  vital  light  of  heaven, 
Soft  disengage,  and  back  into  the  stream 
The  speckled  infant  throw.     But  should  you  lure 
From  his  dark  haunt,  beneath  the  tangled  roots 


Of  pendent  trees,  the  monarch  of  the  brook, 
Behooves  you  then  to  ply  your  finest  art. 
Long  time  he,  following  cautious,  scans  the  fly  ; 
And  oft  attempts  to  seize  it,  but  as  oft 
The  dimpled  water  speaks  his  jealous  fear. 
At  last,  while  haply  o'er  the  shaded  sun 
Passes  a  cloud,  he  desperate  takes  the  death, 
With  sullen  plunge.     At  once  he  darts  along, 
Deep-struck,  and  runs  out  all  the  lengthened  line ; 
Then  seeks  the  farthest  ooze,  the  sheltering  weed, 
The  caverned  bank,  his  old  secure  abode  ; 
And  flies  aloft,  and  flounces  round  the  pool, 
Indignant  of  the  guile.     With  yielding  hand, 
That  feels  him  still,  yet  to  his  furious  course 
Gives  way,  you,  now  retiring,  following  now 
Across  the  stream,  exhaust  his  idle  rage  ; 
Till,  floating  broad  upon  his  breathless  side, 
And  to  his  fate  abandoned,  to  the  shore. 

You  gayly  drag  your  unresisting  prize. 

James  Thomson. 


THE   ANGLER. 

But  look  !  o'er  the  fall  see  the  angler  stand, 
Swinging  his  rod  with  skilful  hand  ; 
The  fly  at  the  end  of  his  gossamer  line 

Swims  through  the  sun  like  a  summer  moth, 
Till,  dropt  with  a  careful  precision  fine, 

It  touches  the  pool  beyond  the  froth. 
A-sudden,  the  speckled  hawk  of  the  brook 
Darts  from  his  covert  and  seizes  the  hook. 
Swift  spins  the  reel ;  with  easy  slip 
The  line  pays  out,  and  the  rod  like  a  whip, 
Lithe  and  arrowy,  tapering,  slim, 
Is  bent  to  a  bow  o'er  the  brooklet's  brim, 
Till  the  trout  leaps  up  in  the  sun,  and  flings 
The  spray  from  the  flash  of  his  finny  wings  ; 
Then  falls  on  his  side,  and,  drunken  with  fright, 

Is  towed  to  the  shore  like  a  staggering  barge, 

Till  beached  at  last  on  the  sandy  marge, 

Where  he  dies  with  the  hues  of  the  morninglight, 

While  his  sides  with  a  cluster  of  stars  are  bright, 

The  angler  in  his  basket  lays 

The  constellation,  and  goes  his  ways. 

Thomas  Buchanan  read. 


THE   ANGLER'S  TRYSTING-TREE. 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Meet  the  morn  upon  the  lea  ; 
Are  the  emeralds  of  the  spring 

On  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 


S3 


POEMS   OF   ADVENTURE   AND    RURAL   SPOUTS. 


a 


521 


Are  there  buds  on  our  willow-tree  ? 
Buds  and  birds  on  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Have  you  met  the  honey-bee, 
Circling  upon  rapid  wing, 

Round  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  up  and  see  ! 

Are  there  bees  at  our  willow-tree  ? 

Birds  and  bees  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Are  the  fountains  gushing  free  ? 
Is  the  south-wind  wandering 

Through  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Is  there  wind  up  our  willow-tree  ? 

"Wind  or  calm  at  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Wile  us  with  a  merry  glee  ; 
To  the  flowery  haunts  of  spring,  — 

To  the  angler's  trysting-tree. 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Are  there  flowers  'neath  our  willow-tree  ? 

Spring  and  flowers  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 

Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


THE   ANGLER, 

0  the  gallant  fisher's  life, 

It  is  the  best  of  any  ! 
T  is  full  of  pleasure,  void  of  strife, 
And  't  is  beloved  by  many  ; 

Other  joys 

Are  but  toys  ; 

Only  this 

Lawful  is  ; 

For  our  skill 

Breeds  no  ill, 
But  content  and  pleasure. 

In  a  morning,  up  we  rise, 
Ere  Aurora's  peeping  ; 

Drink  a  cup  to  wash  our  eyes, 
Leave  the  sluggard  sleeping  ; 

Then  we  go 

To  and  fro, 

With  our  knacks 

At  our  backs, 

To  such  streams 

As  the  Thames, 
If  we  have  the  leisure. 

"When  we  plcnse  to  walk  abroad 

For  our  recreation, 
In  the  fields  is  our  abode, 

Full  of  delectation, 


"Where,  in  a  brook, 
With  a  hook,  — 
Or  a  lake,  — 
Fish  we  take  ; 
There  we  sit, 
For  a  bit, 
Till  we  fish  entangle. 

"We  have  gentles  in  a  horn, 

"We  have  paste  and  worms  too  ; 
"We  can  watch  both  night  and  morn, 
Suffer  rain  ami  storms  too  ; 

None  do  here 

Use  to  swear  : 

Oaths  do  fray 

Fish  away  ; 

We  sit  still, 

Watch  our  quill  : 
Fishers  must  not  wrangle. 

If  the  sun's  excessive  heat 
Make  our  bodies  swelter, 
To  an  osier  hedge  we  get, 
For  a  friendly  shelter  ; 

Where,  in  a  dike, 

Perch  or  pike, 

Roach  or  dace, 

We  do  chase, 

Bleak  or  gudgeon, 

Without  grudging ; 
We  are  still  contented. 

Or  we  sometimes  pass  an  hour 

Under  a  green  willow, 
That  defends  us  from  a  shower, 
Making  earth  our  pillow  ; 

Where  we  may 

Think  anil  pray, 

Before  death 

Stops  our  breath  ; 

Other  joys 

Are  but  toys, 

And  to  be  lamented. 

John  Chalkhill. 


VERSES   IN   PRAISE  OF  ANGLING. 

Quivering  fears,  heart-tearing  cares, 
Anxious  sighs,  untimely  tears, 

Fly,  By  to  courts, 

Fly  to  fond  worldlings'  sports, 
Where  strained  sardonic  smiles  are  glosing  still, 
And  grief  is  forced  to  lnugh  against  her  will, 

Where  mirth  's  but  mummery, 
.    And  sorrows  only  real  be. 


-ff 


522 


POEMS   OF  ADVENTURE  AND   RURAL   SPORTS. 


*r 


Fly  from  our  country  pastimes,  fly, 
Sad  troops  of  human  miserj', 

Come,  serene  looks, 

Clear  as  the  crystal  brooks, 
Or  the  pure  azured  heaven  that  smiles  to  see 
The  rich  attendance  on  our  poverty  ; 

Peace  and  a  secure  mind, 

Which  all  men  seek,  we  only  find. 

Abused  mortals  !  did  you  know 

Where  joy,  heart's  ease,  and  comforts  grow, 
You  'd  scorn  proud  towers 
And  seek  them  in  these  bowers, 

"Where  winds,  sometimes,  our  woods  perhaps  may 
shake, 

But  blustering  care  could  never  tempest  make  ; 
Nor  murmurs  e'er  come  nigh  us, 
Saving  of  fountains  that  glide  by  us. 

Here  's  no  fantastic  mask  nor  dance, 
But  of  our  kids  that  frisk  and  prance  ; 

Nor  wars  are  seen, 

Unless  upon  the  green 
Two  harmless  lambs  are  butting  one  the  other, 
Which  done,  both  bleating  run,  each  to  his  mother  j 

And  wounds  are  never  found, 

Save   what   the    ploughshare   gives    the 
ground. 


Here  are  no  entrapping  baits 
To  hasten  to,  too  hasty  fates  ; 

Unless  it  be 

The  fond  credulity 
Of  sill}7  fish,  which  (worlding  like)  still  look 
Upon  the  bait,  but  never  on  the  hook  ; 

Nor  envy,  'less  among 

The  birds,  for  price  of  their  sweet  song. 


Go. 


let  the  diving  negro  seek 


For  gems,  hid  in  some  forlorn  creek  : 

We.  all  pearls  scorn 

Save  what  the  dewy  morn 
Congeals  upon  each  little  spire  of  grass, 
Which  careless  shepherds  beat  down  as  they  pass  ; 

And  gold  ne'er  here  appears, 

Save  what  the  yellow  Ceres  bears. 

Blest  silent  groves,  0,  may  you  be, 
Forever,  mirth's  best  nursery  ! 

May  pure  contents 

Forever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  these  downs,  these  meads,  these  rocks,  these 

mountains  ! 
And  peace  still  slumber  by  these  purling  fountains, 

Which  we  may  every  year 

Meet,  when  we  come  a-fishing  here. 

Sir  Henry  wotton. 


<b- 


-EP 


r 


■a 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


NORHAM   CASTLE. 

[The  ruinous  castle  of  Xorham  (anciently  called  Ubbanford)  is 
situated  on  the  southern  hank  of  the  Tweed,  about  six  miles  above 
Berwick,  and  where  that  river  is  still  the  boundary  between  Eng- 
land and  Scotland.  The  extent  of  its  ruins,  as  well  as  its  historical 
importance,  shows  it  to  have  been  a  place  of  magnificence  as  well 
as  strength.  Edward  I.  resided  there  when  he  was  created  umpire 
of  the  dispute  concerning  the  Scottish  succession.  It  was  repeat- 
edly taken  and  retaken  during  the  wars  between  England  and 
Scotland,  and,  indeed,  scarce  any  happened  in  which  it  had  not 
a  principal  share.  Norham  Castle  is  situated  on  a  steep  bank, 
which  overhangs  the  river.  The  ruins  of  the  castle  are  at  present 
considerable,  as  well  as  picturesque.  They  consist  of  a  large 
shattered  tower,  with  many  vaults,  and  fragments  of  other  edifices, 
"inclosed  within  an  outward  wall  of  great  circuit.] 

Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone  : 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep, 
The  loop-hole  grates  where  captives  weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height ; 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  the  rays, 
Flashed  hark  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 

St.  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay, 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung  ; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 
']']:.■  scouts  bad  parted  on  their  search, 

The  castle  gates  were  barred  ; 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch, 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march, 

The  warder  kept  his  guard  ; 
Low  humming,  as  be  paced  along, 
Some  ancient  Border  gathering-song. 

A  distant  trampling  sound  lie  hears  ; 

He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears, 
O'er  Homcliff  hill,  a  plump  of  spears, 
Beneath  a  pennon  gay  ; 


A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd, 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud, 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud 

Before  the  dark  array. 
Beneath  the  sable  palisade, 
That  closed  the  castle  barricade, 

His  bugle-horn  he  blew  ; 
The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall, 
And  warned  the  captain  in  the  hall, 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew  ; 
And  joyfully  that  knight  did  call 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 

"  Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie, 

Bring  pasties  of  the  doe, 
And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free, 
And  bid  my  heralds  ready  be, 
And  every  minstrel  sound  his  glee, 

And  all  our  trumpets  blow  ; 
And,  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  fire  a  noble  salvo-shot  : 

Lord  Marmion  waits  below." 
Then  to  the  castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall, 
The  iron-studded  gates  unbarred, 
Raised  the  portcullis'  ponderous  guard, 
The  lofty  palisade  unsparred, 

And  let  the  drawbridge  fall. 

Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rode, 
Proudly  his  red-roan  charger  trode, 
His  helm  hung  at  the  saddle-bow  ; 
"Well  by  his  visage  you  might  know 
He  was  a  stalworth  knight,  and  keen, 
And  had  in  many  a  battle  been. 
The  sear  on  bis  brown  cheek  revealed 
A  token  true  of  Bosworth  field  ; 
His  eyebrow  dark,  and  eye  of  fire, 
Showed  spirit  proud,  and  prompt  to  ire. 
Yet  lines  of  thoughl  upon  his  cheek 

Did   deep  design  aild  COUllsel  speak. 

His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare, 
His  thick  mustache,  and  curly  hair, 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there, 
But  more  through  toil  than  age; 


■&- 


•4 


cB- 


*±3 


5  J  I) 


DESL'llirTIVE   POEMS. 


His  square-turned  joints,  and  strength,  of  limb, 
Showed  him  no  carpet-knight  so  trim, 
But  in  close  fight  a  champion  grim, 
lu  camps  a  leader  sage. 

Well  was  he  armed  from  head  to  heel, 
In  mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel  ; 
But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost, 
Was  all  with  burnished  gold  embossed  ; 
Amid  the  plumage  of  the  crest, 
V  falcon  hovered  on  her  nest, 
With  wings  outspread,  aud  forward  breast ; 
E'en  such  a  falcon,  on  his  shield, 
Soared  sable  in  an  azure  field  : 
The  golden  legend  bore  aright, 
ESEho  checks  at  me  to  ocati)  is  otght. 

Blue  was  the  charger's  broidered  rem  ; 
Blue  ribbons  decked  his  arching  mane  ; 
The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 
Was  velvet  blue,  and  trapped  with  gold. 

Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires 
Of  noble  name  and  knightly  sires  ; 
They  burned  the  gilded  spurs  to  claim  ; 
For  well  could  each  a  war-horse  tame, 
Could  draw  the  bow,  the  sword  could  sway, 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away  ; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored, 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board, 
And  frame  love-ditties  passing  rare, 
And  sing  them  to  a  lady  fair. 

Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs, 
With  halbert,  bill,  and  battle-axe  ; 
They  bore  Lord  Marmion's  lance  so  strong, 
And  led  his  sumpter-mules  along, 
And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 
Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 
The  last  and  trustiest  of  the  four 
On  high  his  forky  pennon  bore  ; 
Like  swallow's  tail,  in  shape  and  hue, 
Fluttered  the  streamer  glossy  blue, 
Where,  blazoned  sable,  as  before, 
The  towering  falcon  seemed  to  soar, 
t,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two, 
In  fiosen  black,  and  jerkins  blue, 
With  falcons  broidered  on  each  breast, 
Attended  on  their  lord's  behest : 
Each,  chosen  for  an  archer  good, 
Knew  hunting-craft  by  lake  or  wood  ; 
Ea  h  one  a  six-foot  how  could  bend, 
And  far  a  cloth-yard  shaft  could  send  ; 
I    ch  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong, 
And  at  their  belts  their  quivers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys  and  array 
Showed  they  had  inarched  a  weary  way. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


MELROSE  ABBEY. 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight  ; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 

Gild,  but  to  ilout,  the  ruins  gray. 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white  ; 

When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 

Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower  ; 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory ; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die  ; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave, 

Then  go,  —  but  go  alone  the  while,  — 

Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile  ; 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair  ! 

The  pillared  arches  were  over  their  head, 

And  beneath  their  feet  were  the  bones  of  the  dead. 

Spreading  herbs  and  flowerets  bright 
Glistened  with  the  dew  of  night ; 
Nor  herb  nor  floweret  glistened  there, 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister-arches  as  fair. 
The  monk  gazed  long  on  the  lovely  moon, 

Then  into  the  night  he  looked  forth  ; 
And  red  and  bright  the  streamers  light 
Were  dancing  in  the  glowing  north. 


He  knew,  by  the  streamers  that  shot  so  bright, 
That  spirits  were  riding  the  northern  light. 

By  a  steel-clenched  postern  door, 

They  entered  now  the  chancel  tall ; 
The  darkened  roof  rose  high  aloof 

On  pillars  lofty  and  light  and  small  ; 
The  keystone,  that  locked  each  ribbed  aisle, 
Was  a  fleur-de-lis,  or  a  quatre-feuille  : 
The  corbells  were  carved  grotesque  and  grim  ; 
And  the  pillars,  with  clustered  shafts  so  trim, 
With  base  and  with  capital  flourished  around, 
Seemed  bundles  of  lances  which   garlands  had 
bound. 

Full  many  a  scutcheon  and  banner,  riven, 
Shook  to  the  cold  night-wind  of  heaven, 

Around  the  screened  altar's  pale  ; 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn, 
Before  thy  low  and  lonely  urn, 
0  gallant  chief  of  Otterburne  ! 

And  thine,  dark  Knight  of  Liddesdale! 
0  fading  honors  of  the  dead  ! 
0  high  ambition,  lowly  laid  ! 


C& 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


527 


ft 


The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined  ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand 
'Twixt  poplars  straight  the  osier  wand 

In  many  a  freakish  knot  had  twined  ; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done. 
And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone. 
The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint, 
Showed  many  a  prophet,  and  many  a  saint, 

Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed  ; 
Full  in  the  midst,  his  Cross  of  Red 
Triumphant  Michael  brandished, 

And  trampled  the  Apostate's  pride. 

The  moonbeam  kissed  the  holy  pane, 

And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  bloody  stain. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


CHRISTMAS   IN   OLDEN  TIME. 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  —  the  wind  is  chill ; 

But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 

We  '11  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 

Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 

The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer  : 

Even,  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 

At  Iol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain  ; 

High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew, 

And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew  ; 

Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall, 

Where  shields  and  axes  decked  the  wall, 

They  gorged  upon  the  half-dressed  steer  ; 

Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer  ; 

While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  were  thrown 

Tin'  half-gnawed  rib  and  marrow-bone, 

Or  listened  all,  in  grim  delight, 

While  scalds  yelled  out  the  joys  of  fight. 

Thru  forth  in  frenzy  would  they  hie, 

While  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly, 

And  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile 

They  make  such  barbarous  mirth  the  while, 

As  besl  might  to  the  mind  recall 

The  boisterou  '  Idin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  .-ires  of  old 
Lo    d     hen  the  ourse  had  rolled, 

And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 
Wi  h  all  its  hospitable  train. 
Dob  nd  religious  rite 

Gave  honor  to  the  holy  nij  hi  ; 
( ):i  Chri  t  mas  eve  the  bells  were  rung  : 
( >u  Chri  itma  i  eve  the  mass  was  sung; 
That  only  night  in  all  the  year, 
Saw  the  stoled  pi  ie  I  the  chalice  re  ir. 

The  damsel  donned  her  1;  i  it  If  sheen  ; 

The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green  ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go, 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 


Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 
And  Ceremony  doffed  his  pride  ; 
The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes, 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose  ; 
The  lord,  underogating,  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  "  post  and  pair." 
All  hailed  with  uncontrolled  delight 
And  general  voice  the  happy  night 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown, 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied, 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide  ; 
The  huge  hall  table's  oaken  face, 
Scrubbed  till  it  shone  the  day  to  grace, 
Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord  ; 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn, 
By  old  blue-coated  serving-man  ; 
Then  the  grim  boar's  head  frowned  on  high, 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell 
How,  when,  and  where  the  monster  fell ; 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls, 
Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls, 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked  ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie, 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce 
At  such  high  tide,  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in  ; 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din, 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song, 
It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ; 
White  skirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made  ; 
But,  oh  !  what  maskers,  richly  dight, 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light  ? 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 

'T  was  Christmas  br died  the  mightiest  ale  ' 

'T  was  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  - 

Sir  w  \!  i !  R  scott. 


DIVINA  COMMEDIA. 


Oft  have  I  seen,  at  some  cathedral  door, 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dual  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 


~ff 


a- 


528 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


ft 


Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er  ; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 

The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

II. 

How  strange   the  sculptures  that   adorn  these 
towers  ! 
This  crowd  of  statues,  in  whose  folded  sleeves 
Birds  build  their  nests  ;  while  canopied  with 

leaves 
Parvis  and  portal  bloom  like  trellised  bowers, 
And  the  vast  minster  seems  a  cross  of  flowers  ! 
But  fiends  and  dragons  on  the  gargoyled  eaves 
Watch   the   dead   Christ   between  the  living 

thieves, 
And,  underneath,  the  traitor  Judas  lowers  ! 
Ah  !  from  what  agonies  of  heart  and  brain, 
What  exultations  trampling  on  despair, 
What   tenderness,  what  tears,  what   hate   of 
wrong, 
What  passionate  outcry  of  a  soul  in  pain, 
Uprose  this  poem  of  the  earth  and  air, 
This  mediaeval  miracle  of  song  ! 

in. 

I  enter,  and  I  see  thee  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  long  aisles,  0  poet  saturnine  ! 
And  strive  to  make  my  steps  keep  pace  with 

thine. 
The  air  is  filled  with  some  unknown  perfume ; 

The  congregation  of  the  dead  make  room 
For  thee  to  pass ;  the  votive  tapers  shine ; 
Like  rooks  that  haunt  Ravenna's  groves  of  pine 
The  hovering  echoes  fly  from  tomb  to  tomb. 

From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
Ami  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below; 

And  then  a  voice  celestial,  that  becrins 

With  the  pathetic  words,  "Although  your  sins 
As  scarlet  be,"  and  ends  with  "  as  the  snow." 

IV. 

I  lift  mine  eyes,  and  all  the  windows  blaze 
With  forms  of  saints  and  holy  men  who  died, 
Hi.   martyred  and  hereafter  glorified  ; 
And  the  great  Rose  upon  its  leaves  displays 

Christ's  Triumph,  and  the  angelic  roundelays, 
With  splendor  upon  splendor  multiplied  ; 
And  Beatrice  again  at  Dante's  side 
No   more   rebukes,  but   smiles  her  words  of 
praise. 


And  then  the  organ  sounds,  and  unseen  choirs 
Sing  the  old  Latin  hymns  of  peace  and  love, 
And  benedictions  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 

And  the  melodious  bells  among  the  spires 

O'er  all  the  house-tops   and  through  heaven 

above 
Proclaim  the  elevation  of  the  Host ! 

v. 

0  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty  ! 

0  bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor  shines 
Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 
Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be  ! 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Repeat  thy  song,  till  the  familiar  lines 
Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy  ! 

Thy  fame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the  heights, 
Through  all  the  nations,  and  a  sound  is  heard, 
As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 

Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 

In  their  own  language  hear  thy  wondrous  word, 

And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  ; 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 
This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning  ;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky, 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will. 

Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep  ; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 
1802. 


ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race, 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial  place, 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave  ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours  ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "flout  the  sky" 

Above  his  princely  towers. 


^ 


~ff 


FISH  ER'S     ROCK. 


We  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage 
A  nd  looked  at  the  stormy  tide  " 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


529 


ft 


A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 

Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katherine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

I  wandered  through  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name, 
Prom  him  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons, 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son, 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons. 

That  last  half-stanza,  —  it  has  dashed 

Prom  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup  ; 
The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flashed, 

The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 
Above  this  bank-note  world,  is  gone  ; 
And  Alnwick  's  but  a  market  town, 
And  this,  alas  !  its  market  day, 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way  ; 
Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line  ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land, 
From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand, 
From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spor-ser's  rhyme  . 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy  ; 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable, 
Of  knights,  but  not  of  the  round  table, 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy  ; 
'T  is  what  "Our  President,"  Monroe, 

called  "the  era  of  good  feeling"  ; 
The  Highlander,  the  bitteresl  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
( '.in  . -nil  d  to  be  taxed,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  Leave  off  cattle-stealii 
Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglass  in  red  herrings; 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 
ce,  and  park,  and  vassal  band, 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 


The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come  :  to-day  the  turbaned  Turk 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart  ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally  ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone, 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die  ; 
And  not  a  sabre-.blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You  '11  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state  ? 
The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "gentle  Kate," 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving-men 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn  ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy  ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon  keep  to  turret  wall, 

For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 

FlTZ-GREE.VE  HALLECK. 


THE  FISHER'S  COTTAGE. 

We  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage, 
And  looked  at  the  stormy  tide  ; 

The  evening  mist  came  rising, 
And  floating  far  and  wide. 

One  by  one  in  the  lighthouse 

The  lamps  shone  out  on  high  ; 
And  far  on  the  dim  horizon 

A  ship  went  sailing  by. 

We  spoke  of  storm  and  shipwreck,  — 

Of  sailors,  and  how  they  live  ; 
Of  journeys  'twixt  sky  and  water, 

And  the  sorrows  and  joys  they  give. 

We  spoke  of  distant  countries, 

In  regions  strange  and  fair, 
And  of  the  wondrous  beings 

And  curious  customs  there  ; 

Of  perfumed  lamps  on  the  Ganges, 

Which  are  launched  in  the  twilight  hour  ; 

And  the  dark  and  silent  Brahmins, 
Who  worship  I  tie  lotos  Bower. 

<  >f  the  wretched  dwarfs  of  Lapland,  — 
Broad-headed,  wide-mouthed,  and  small, - 

Who  crouch  round  their  oil-fires,  cooking, 
And  chatter  and  scream  and  bawl. 


-ff 


a- 


530 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


-fh 


And  the  maidens  earnestly  listened, 

Till  at  last  we  spoke  no  more  ; 
The  ship  like  a  shadow  had  vanished, 

And  darkness  fell  deep  on  the  shore. 

HENRY  Heine  (German).    Translation 
of  Charles  G.  Leland. 


THE   HURRICANE. 

Lord  of  the  winds  !  I  feel  thee  nigh, 
I  know  thy  breath  in  the  burning  sky  ! 
And  I  wait,  with  a  thrill  in  every  vein, 
For  the  coming  of  the  hurricane  ! 

And  lo  !  on  the  wing  of  the  heavy  gales, 
Through  the  boundless  arch  of  heaven  he  sails. 
Silent  and  slow,  and  terribly  strong, 
The  mighty  shadow  is  borne  along, 
Like  the  dark  eternity  to  come  ; 
While  the  world  below,  dismayed  and  dumb, 
Through  the  calm  of  the  thick  hot  atmosphere 
Looks  up  at  its  gloomy  folds  with  fear. 

They  darken  fast ;  and  the  golden  blaze 
Of  the  sun  is  quenched  in  the  lurid  haze, 
And  he  sends  through  the  shade  a  funeral  ray  — 
A  glare  that  is  neither  night  nor  day, 
A  beam  that  touches,  with  hues  of  death, 
The  clouds  above  and  the  earth  beneath. 
To  its  covert  glides  the  silent  bird, 
"While  the  hurricane's  distant  voice  is  heard 
Uplifted  among  the  mountains  round, 
And  the  forests  hear  and  answer  the  sound. 

He  is  come  !  he  is  come  !  do  ye  not  behold 
His  ample  robes  on  the  wind  unrolled  ? 
Giant  of  air  !  we  bid  thee  hail  !  — 
How  his  gray  skirts  toss  in  the  whirling  gale  ; 
How  his  huge  and  writhing  arms  are  bent 
To  clasp  the  zone  of  the  firmament, 
And  fold  at  length,  in  their  dark  embrace, 
From  mountain  to  mountain  the  visible  space. 

Darker,  —  still  darker  !  the  whirlwinds  bear 
Tin-  dust  of  the  plains  to  the  middle  air  ; 
And  hark  to  the  crashing,  long  and  loud, 
Of  the  chariol  of  Cod  in  the  thunder-cloud! 
You  may  trace  its  path  by  the  hashes  that  start 
From  the  rapid  wheels  where'er  they  dart, 

he  fire-bolts  leap  to  the  world  below, 
And  flood  the  skies  with  a  lurid  glow. 

What  roar  is  that  ?  —  't  is  the  rain  that  breaks 
In  torrents  away  from  the  airy  lakes, 
Heavily  poured  on  the  shuddering  ground, 
And  shedding  a  nameless  horror  round. 
Ah  !  well-known  woods,  and  mountains,  and  skies, 
With  the  very  clouds  !  —  ye  are  lost  to  my  eyes. 


I  seek  ye  vainly,  and  see  in  your  place 

The  shadowy  tempest  that  sweeps  through  space, 

A  whirling  ocean  that  fills  the  wall 

Of  the  crystal  heaven,  and  buries  all. 

And  I,  cut  off  from  the  world,  remain 

Alone  with  the  terrible  hurricane. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


HOLLAND. 


THE    TRAVELLER. 


To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosomed  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow  ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 
While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile ; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossomed  vale 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 

Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 

Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 

And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 

Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 

With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 

Are  here  displayed. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


ITALY   AND   SWITZERLAND. 

FROM    "THE   TRAVELLER." 

Far  to  the  right  where  Apennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends. 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods,  in  gay  theatric  pride  ; 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  were  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year  ; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die  ; 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 


£9- 


--ff 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


531 


•a 


"While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign  ; 
Though  poor,  luxurious ;  though  submissive,  vain ; 
Though  grave,  yet  trilling  ;  zealous,  yet  untrue  ; 
And  e'en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 
Pur  wealth  was  theirs  ;  not  far  removed  the  date 
When  commerce  proudly  flourished  through  the 

state  ; 
At  her  command  the  palace  learnt  to  rise, 
Again  the  long-fallen  column  sought  the  skies  ; 
The  canvas  glowed  beyond  e'en  Nature  warm, 
Tin-  pregnant  quarry  teemed  with  human  form. 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  displayed  her  sail ; 
While  naught  remained  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmanned,  and  lords  without  a  slave  : 
And  late  the  nation  found  with  fruitless  skill 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride  ; 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fallen  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  arrayed, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade  ; 
Processions  formed  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child  ; 
Each  nobler  aim,  represt  by  long  control, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul  ; 
While  low  delights  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind  ; 
As  in  those  domes  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed, 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey, 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display, 
Where   the  bleat  ormy  mansion 

tread, 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scantj  bread  ; 
No  prodncl  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
But  man  ami  steel,  the  soldier  ami  his  sword. 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sacs  the  mountain's  breast, 
u  1  stormj  glooms  invest. 

Y'-t  still,  e'en  here,  contenl  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  it ,  rage  disarm, 


Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts  though 

small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all  ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed, 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes  ; 
With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 
Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the  steep  ; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way, 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labor  sped, 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed  : 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze  ; 
While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  ; 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


ITALY. 


0  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art  ! 
Yet  I  could  weep,  —  for  thou  art  lying,  alas  ! 
Low  in  the  dust ;  and  they  who  come  admire  thee 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 
Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  the  gift  of  beauty. 
Would  thou  hadst  less,  or  wert  as  once  thou  wast, 
Inspiring  awe  in  those  who  now  enslave  thee  ! 
But  why  despair  ?    Twice  hast  thou  lived  already, 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world, 
As  the  sun  shines  among  the  lesser  lights 
Of  heaven  ;  and  shalt  again.    The  hour  shall  come, 
When  they  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  spirit, 
Who,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey, 
Watch  with  quick  eye,  and  strike  and  strike  again 
If  hut  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  confess 
Their  wisdom  folly. 

SAMUEL  ROCERS. 


VENICE. 

There  is  a  glorious  City  in  the  Sea. 

The  Sea  is  in  the  hroad,  the  narrow  streets. 
Ebbing  and  flowing  ;  and  the  salt  sea-weed 
Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro, 
Lead  to  her  gates.     The  path  lies  o'er  the  Sea, 
Invisible  :  and  from  the  land  we  went, 
As  to  a  floating  City,       steering  in, 
And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream, 


w 


[& 


532 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


So  smoothly,  silently,  —  by  many  a  dome 
Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico, 
The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky; 
By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  splendor, 
Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant  kings  ; 
The  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  had  shattered 
them, 
.  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art, 
As  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 

A  few  in  fear, 
Flying  away  from  him  whose  boast  it  was 
That  the  grass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had  trod, 
Gave  birth  to  Venice.     Like  the  water-fowl, 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean  waves  ; 
And  where  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew  from  the  north,  the  south  ;  where  they  that 

came, 
Had  to  make  sure  the  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Rose,  like  an  exhalation,  from  the  deep, 
A  vast  Metropolis,  with  glittering  spires, 
With  theatres,  basilicas  adorned  ; 
A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  dominion, 
That  has  endured  the  longest  among  men. 

And  whence  the  talisman  by  which  she  rose 
Towering  ?  'T  was  found  there  in  the  barren  sea. 
Want  led  to  Enterprise  ;  and,  far  or  near, 
"Who  met  not  the  Venetian  ?  —  now  in  Cairo  ; 
Ere  yet  the  Califa  came,  listening  to  hear 
Its  bells  approaching  from  the  Red  Sea  coast ; 
Now  on  the  Euxine,  on  the  Sea  of  Azoph, 
In  converse  with  the  Persian,  with  the  Russ, 
The  Tartar  ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 
Pearls  from  the  gulf  of  Ormus,  gems  from  Bagdad, 
Eyes  brighter  yet,  that  shed  the  light  of  love 
From  Georgia,  from  Circassia.   Wandering  round, 
When  in  tin'  rich  bazaar  he  saw,  displayed, 
Treasures  from  unknown  climes,  away  he  went, 
And,  travelling  slowly  upward,  drew  erelong 
From  the  well-head  supplying  all  below  ; 
Making  the  Imperial  City  of  the  East 
Herself  his  tributary. 

Thus  did  Venice  rise, 
Thus  flourish,  till  the  unwelcome  tidings  came, 
That  in  the  Tagus  had  arrived  a  fleet 
From  India,  from  the  region  of  the  Sun, 

rant  with  spices,  —  that  a  way  was  found, 
A  channel  opened,  and  the  golden  stream 
Turned  to  enrich  another.     Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  departing,  and  at  last  she  fell, 
Fell  in  an  instant,  blotted  out  and  razed  ; 
She  who  had  stood  yet  longer  than  the  longest 
<  >t  the  Four  Kingdoms,  —  who,  as  in  an  Ark, 
Had  Boated  down  amid  a  thousand  wrecks, 
Uninjured,  from  the  Old  World  to  the  New. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


ROME. 

I  AM  in  Rome !  Oft  as  the  morning  ray 
Visits  these  eyes,  waking  at  once  I  cry, 
Whence  this  excess  of  joy  ?     What  has  befallen 

me  ? 
And  from  within  a  thrilling  voice  replies, 
Thou  art  in  Rome  !     A  thousand  busy  thoughts 
Rush  on  my  mind,  a  thousand  images  ; 
And  I  spring  up  as  girt  to  run  a  race  ! 

Thou  art  in  Rome  !  the  City  that  so  long 
Reigned  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world  ; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  prophets  saw, 
And  trembled  ;  that  from  nothing,  from  the  least, 
The  lowliest  village  (what  but  here  and  there 
A  reed-roofed  cabin  by  a  river-side  ? ) 
Grew  into  everything  ;  and,  year  by  year, 
Patiently,  fearlessly  working  her  way 
O'er  brook  and  field,  o'er  continent  and  sea, 
Xot  like  the  merchant  with  his  merchandise, 
Or  traveller  with  stall'  and  scrip  exploring, 
But  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot  through  hosts, 
Through  nations  numberless  in  battle  array, 
Each  behind  each,  each,  when 'the  other  fell, 
Up  and  in  arms,  at  length  subdued  them  all. 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


THE   GRECIAN"   TEMPLES    AT    PiESTUM. 

In  Paestum's  ancient  fanes  I  trod, 
And  mused  on  those  strange  men  of  old, 
Whose  dark  religion  could  infold 
So  many  gods,  and  yet  no  God  ! 

Did  they  to  human  feelings  own, 
And  had  they  human  souls  indeed, 
Or  did  the  sternness  of  their  creed 
Frown  their  faint  spirits  into  stone  ? 

The  southern  breezes  fan  my  face  ;  — 
I  hear  the  hum  of  bees  arise, 
And  lizards  dart,  with  mystic  eyes, 
That  shrine  the  secret  of  the  place  f 

These  silent  columns  speak  of  dread, 
Of  lovely  worship  without  love  ; 
And  yet  the  warm,  deep  heaven  above 
Whispers  a  softer  tale  instead  ! 

Rossiter  W.  Raymond. 


COLISEUM   BY   MOONLIGHT. 


FROM       MANFRED. 


The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shinuig  mountains.  —  Beautiful ! 


& 


rR 


ft 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


I  linger  yet  Avith  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  heen  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness 
I  learned  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  was  wandering,  —  upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome. 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
"Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber  ;  and 
More  near  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appeared  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot,  — where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  levelled  battle- 
ments, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths. 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth  ;  — 
But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection, 
While  Caesar's  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay.  — 
And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 
"Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  idled  up, 
As  't  wen-  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries, 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  !  — 
The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns. 

BYRON. 


THE   COLISEUM. 

FROM    "CHILDE    HAROLD." 

in  -  on  arches  '  as  it  were  thai  Pome, 
i  lollecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands  ;  the  moonbeams  shine 

As  't  were  H  i  natural  torches,   for  ilivme 

Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  t<>  illume 
This  long-explored,  but  still  exhaustless,  mine 
Of  contemplation ;  and  the  azure  gloom 

I  II'  an    Italian  night,  where  the  ilcep  skies  assume 


d-l 


Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of 

heaven, 


Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.     There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  dower. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 
And   wherefore   slaughtered  ?   wherefore,   but 

because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.  —  Wherefore  not  ? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms,  —  on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot  ? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  ; 
He  leans  upon  his  hand,  —  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  bis  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low,  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower  ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him,  —  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the 
wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not,  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away. 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
Tlierewas  their  i  >acian  mother,  — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday  !  — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood.  —  Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged  ?    Arise,  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your 
ire  ! 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody 

steam, 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the 

ways, 
Ami  roared  or  murmured  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Here,  where  tin'  Roman  millions'  Manic  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
My  voice  sounds  much,  —  ami  fall  the  stars' 

faint  raj s 
On  the  arena  void,  scats  crushed,  walls  bowed, 
Andgallerie  .  «  here  my  steps  seem  echoes  strange- 
ly loud. 

A  ruin,  —  yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  reared  ; 


Lh 


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534 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


fb 


Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appeared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  cleared  ? 
Alas  !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
"When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared  ; 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have 
reft  away. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmpst  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there  ; 
"When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of 

time, 
And  the  low  night -breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Cresar's  head  ; 
"When  the  light  shines  serene,  but  doth  not 

glare,  — 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  ; 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot,  —  't  is  on  their  dust 

ye  tread. 

""While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand ; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 
And  when  Rome  falls  —  the  "World."     From 

our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unaltered  all  ; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den  —  of  thieves,  or 

what  ye  will. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime,  — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods, 
From  Jove  to  Jesus,  —  spared  and  blest  by  time ; 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man 

plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes,  — glorious 

dome  ! 
Shalt  thou  not  last  ?     Time's  scythe  and  tyrants' 

rods 
Shiver  upon  thee,  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety, — Pantheon  ! — pride  of  Rome  ! 

Relic  of  nobler  days  and  noblest  arts  ! 
Despoiled  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts. 
To  art  a  model ;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture  ;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads  ; 
And  they  who  i'eel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honored  forms,  whose  busts  around 
them  close. 


BYRON. 


A   DAY   IN   THE   PAMFILI    DORIA. 


Though  the  hills  are  cold  and  snowy, 
And  the  wind  drives  chill  to-day, 

My  heart  goes  back  to  a  spring-time, 
Far,  far  in  the  past  away. 

And  I  see  a  quaint  old  city, 

Weary  and  worn  and  brown, 
Where  the  spring  and  the  birds  are  so  early. 

And  the  sun  in  such  light  goes  down. 

I  remember  that  old-times  villa 
Where  our  afternoons  went  by, 

Where  the  suns  of  March  flushed  warmly, 
And  spring  was  in  earth  and  sky. 

Out  of  the  mouldering  city,  — 

Mouldering,  old,  and  gray,  — 
We  sped,  with  a  lightsome  heart-thrill, 

For  a  sunny,  gladsome  day,  — 

For  a  revel  of  fresh  spring  verdure, 
For  a  race  mid  springing  flowers, 

For  a  vision  of  plashing  fountains, 
Of  birds  and  blossoming  bowers. 

There  were  violet  banks  in  the  shadows, 

Violets  white  and  blue  ; 
And  a  world  of  bright  anemones, 

That  over  the  terrace  grew,  — 

Blue  and  orange  and  purple, 

Rosy  and  yellow  and  white, 
Rising  in  rainbow  bubbles, 

Streaking  the  lawns  with  light. 

And  down  from  the  old  stone-pine  trees, 

Those  far-off  islands  of  air, 
The  birds  are  flinging  the  tidings 

Of  a  joyful  revel  up  there. 

And  now  for  the  grand  old  fountains, 

Tossing  their  silvery  spray,  — 
Those  fountains,  so  quaint  and  so  many, 

That  are  leaping  and  singing  all  day. 

Those  fountains  of  strange  weird  sculpture, 
With  lichens  and  moss  o'ergrown, 
Are  they  marble  greening  in  moss-wreaths, 
Or  moss-wreaths  whitening  to  stone  ? 

Down  many  a  wild,  dim  pathway 
We  ramble  from  morning  till  noon  ; 

We  linger,  unheeding  the  hours, 
Till  evening  comes  all  too  socn. 

And  from  out  the  ilex  alleys, 

Where  lengthening  shadows  play, 


It1,  ■ 


9 


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DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


535 


•ft 


We  look  on  the  dreamy  Campagna, 
All  glowing  with  setting  day,  — 

All  melting  in  bands  of  purple, 
In  swathings  and  foldings  of  gold, 

In  ribbons  of  azure  and  lilac, 
Like  a  princely  banner  unrolled. 

And  the  smoke  of  each  distant  cottage, 
And  the  flash  of  each  villa  white, 

Shines  out  with  an  opal  glimmer, 
Like  gems  in  a  casket  of  light. 

And  the  dome  of  old  St.  Peter's 
With  a  strange  translucence  glows, 

Like  a  mighty  bubble  of  amethyst 
Floating  in  waves  of  rose. 

In  a  trance  of  dreamy  vagueness, 
We,  gazing  and  yearning,  behold 

That  city  beheld  by  the  prophet, 
Whose  walls  were  transparent  gold. 

Ami,  dropping  all  solemn  and  slowly, 

To  hallow  the  softening  spell, 
There  falls  on  the  dying  twilight 

The  Ave  Maria  bell. 

With  a  mournful,  motherly  softness, 

With  a  weird  and  weary  care, 
That  strange  and  ancient  city 

Seems  calling  the  nations  to  prayer. 

And  the  words  that  of  old  the  angel 
To  the  mother  of  Jesus  brought 

Rise  like  a  new  evangel, 

To  hallow  the  trance  of  our  thought. 

With  the  smoke  of  the  evening  incense 
Our  thoughts  are  ascending,  then, 

To  Mary,  tin'  mother  of  Jesus, 
To  Jesus,  the  Master  of  men. 

0  city  nf  prophets  and  martyrs  ! 

0  shrines  of  the  sainted  dead  ! 
When,  when  shall  the  living  day-spring 

(  hue  more  on  your  towers  be  spread  ? 

When  Ilr  who  is  meek  and  lowly 
Shall  rule  in  those  lordly  halls, 

And  shall  stand  and  feed  as  a  shepherd 
Thr  flock  which  his  mercy  calls,  — 

O,  then  t"  those  noble  churches, 
'I'..  picture  ami  Btatue  and  gem, 

T"  thr  pageant  of  solemn  worship, 
Shall  thr  meaning  come  hack  again. 

And  thi  and  ancient  city, 

lii  thai  reign  of  his  truth  and  love, 
Shall  /..•  what   it   Be&mS  in  the  twilight, 

The  type  of  that  ( 'it  v  above, 

Mark  ii  i   Bl  i  CHER  Stows. 


ROMAN   GIRL'S   SONG. 

"  Roma.  Roma,  Roma  I 
Non  e  piu  come  era  prima.'* 

Rome,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  ! 
On  thy  seven  hills  of  yore 

Thou  sat'st  a  queen. 

Thou  hadst  thy  triumphs  then 

Purpling  the  street, 
Leaders  and  sceptred  men 

Bowed  at  thy  feet. 

They  that  thy  mantle  wore, 

As  gods  were  seen,  — ■ 
Rome,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  ! 

Rome  !  thine  imperial  brow 

Never  shall  rise  : 
What  hast  thou  left  thee  now  ?  — 

Thou  hast  thy  skies  ! 

Blue,  deeply  blue,  they  are, 

Gloriously  bright  ! 
Veiling  thy  wastes  afar 

With  colored  light. 

Thou  hast  the  sunset's  glow 

Rome,  for  thy  dower, 
Flushing  tall  cypress  bough, 

Temple  and  tower  ! 

And  all  sweet  sounds  are  thine 

Lovely  to  hear, 
While  night,  o'er  tomb  and  shrine, 

Rests  darkly  clear. 

Many  a  solemn  hymn, 

By  starlight  sung, 
Sweeps  through  the  arches  dim, 

Thy  wrecks  among. 

Many  a  flute's  low  swell 

On  thy  soft  air 
Lingers,  and  loves  to  dwell 

With  summer  there. 

Thou  hast  the  south's  rich  gift 
Of  sudden  SOng,  — 

A  charmed  fountain,  swift, 
Joyous,  and  strong. 

Thou  hast  fair  forms  that  move 

With  queenly  tread  ; 
Thou  hast  proud  lanes  above 

Thy  mighty  dead. 

Yet  wens  thy  Tiher's  shore 

A  mournful  mien  :  — 
Rome,  Rome!  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  ! 

Felicia  He:.: 


43— 


& 


-R- 


53G 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


NAPLES. 

Tins  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the  earth. 

"Was  it  not  dropt  from  heaven  ?    Not  a  grove, 

Citron,  or  pine,  or  cedar,  not  a  grot 

Sea-worn  and  mantled  with  the  gadding  vine, 

But  breathes  enchantment.  Not  a  cliff  but  flings 

On  the  clear  wave  .some  image  of  delight, 

Some  cabin-roof  glowing  with  crimson  flowers, 

Sum.'  ruined  temple  or  fallen  monument, 

T.i  muse  on  as  the  bark  is  gliding  by, 

And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there,  mine  to  glide, 

From  daybreak,  when  the  mountain  pales  his  fire 

Yel  more  ami  more,  and  from  the  mountain-top, 

Till  then  invisible,  a  smoke  ascends, 

Solemn  and  slow,  as  erst  from  Ararat, 

When  he,  the  Patriarch,  who  escaped  the  Flood, 

"\\ "as  with  his  household  sacrificing  there,  — 

From  daybreak  to  that  hour,  the  last  and  best, 

When,  one  by  one,  the  fishing-boats  come  forth, 

Each  with  its  glimmering  lantern  at  the  prow, 

And,  when  the  nets  are  thrown,  the  evening  hymn 

Is  o'er  the  trembling  waters. 

Everywhere 

Fable  and  Truth  have  shed,  in  rivalry, 

Each  her  peculiar  influence.     Fable  came, 

And  laughed  and  sung,  arraying  Truth  in  flowers, 

Like  a  young  child  her  grandam.     Fable  came  ; 

Earth,  sea  and  sky  reflecting,  as  she  flew, 

A  thousand,  thousand  colors  not  their  own  : 

Ami  at  her  bidding,  lo  !  a  dark  descent 

To  Tartarus,  and  those  thrice  happy  fields, 

Those  fields  with  ether  pure  and  purple  light 

Ever  invested,  scenes  by  him  described 

Who  here  was  wont  to  wander,  record 

What  they  revealed,  and  on  the  western  shore 

Slee]  is  in  a  silent  grove,  o'erlooking  thee, 

Beloved  Parthenope. 

Yet  here,  methinks, 

Truth  wants  no  ornament,  in  her  own  shape 

Filling  the  mind  by  turns  with  awe  and  love, 

By  turns  inclining  to  wild  ecstasy 

And  soberest  meditation. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


GREAT   BRITAIN. 

FROM    "  THE   TRAVELLER." 

....  My  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
Ami  flics  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring ; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  thanfamed  Hydaspes  glide ; 
Tlnre  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray  ; 

ition's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined, 
Extn  only  in  the  master's  mind  ! 

Stern  o'er  each  bosom  Reason  holds  her  state, 


With  daring  aims  irregularly  great ; 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 

I  see  the  lords  of  human-kind  pass  by  ; 

Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 

By  forms  unfashioned,  fresh  from  Nature's  hand, 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 

True  to  imagined  right,  above  control, 

While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 

And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured  here, 

Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE   LEPER. 

"  Room  for  the  leper  !    Room  !  "    And  as  he  came 
The  cry   passed   on,  —  "Room  for  the  leper! 
Room  ! " 

And  aside  they  stood, 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood,  —  all 
Who  met  him  on  his  way,  —  and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came 
A  leper  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow, 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow, 
And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down, 
Crying,  —  "Unclean  !  unclean  !  " 

Day  was  breaking 
When  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  God.     The  incense-lamp 
Burned  with  a  struggling  light,  and  a  low  chant 
Swelled  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof, 
Like  an  articulate  wail,  and  there,  alone, 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  Helon  knelt. 
The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 
Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up, 
Struggling  with  weakness,  and  bowed  down  his 

head 
Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 
His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb, 
And  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip 
Hid  in  a  loathsome  covering,  stood  still, 
Waiting  to  hear  his  doom  :  — 

"  Depart  !  depart,  0  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  God, 
For  he  has  smote  thee  with  his  chastening  rod, 

And  to  the  desert  wild 
From  all  thou  lov'st  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  his  people  may  be  free. 

"Depart !  and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city,  more  ; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er  ; 

And  stay  thou  not  to  hear 


f 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


537 


Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way  ;  and  fly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

' '  Wet  not  thy  burning  lip 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide  ; 
Nor  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide, 

Nor  kneel  thee  down  to  dip 
The  water  where  the  pilgrim  bends  to  drink, 
By  desert  well,  or  river's  grassy  brink. 

"  And  pass  not  thou  between 
The  weary  traveller  and  the  cooling  breeze, 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  the  trees 

"Where  human  tracks  are  seen  ; 
Nor  milk  the  goat  that  browseth  on  the  plain, 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn,  or  yellow  grain. 

' '  And  now  depart  !  and  when 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim, 
Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who,  from  the  tribes  of  men, 
Selected  thee  to  feel  his  chastening  rod. 
Depart  !  0  leper  !  and  forget  not  God  !  " 

And  he  went  forth  — alone  !  not  one  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comfort  unto  him.     Yea,  he  went  his  way, 
Sick  and  heart-broken,  and  alone,  — to  die  ! 
For  God  had  cursed  the  leper  ! 

It  was  noon, 
And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touched 
The  loathsome  water  to  his  fevered  lips, 
Praying  that  he  might  be  so  blest,  —  to  die  ! 
Footsteps  approached,  and  with  no  strength  to  flee, 
He  drew  the  covering  clos<  r  on  his  lip, 
frying,  "Unclean  !    unclean  !  "  and  in  the  folds 
i  >i  the  coarse  sackcloth  shrouding  up  his  face, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  stranger  came,  and  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name. 
—  "Helon!"  —  the  voice  was  like  the  master- 
tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument,      n  ngely  sweet ; 

And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke, 
And  for  a  momenl  be  i1  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprou     cales  with  a  restoring  thrill, 
"  Helen  !  arise  !  "  and  he  forgol  his  curse, 
And  rose  and  stood  before  him. 

Love  and  awe 
Mingled  in  the  regard  of  Helon's  eye 
As  be  beheld  the  stranger.     He  was  not 

!  tly  raiment   , ■].,  |,   Qor  hi  his  brow 

mbol  of  a  princely  Lineage  wore  ; 


No  followers  at  his  back,  nor  in  his  hand 

Buckler,  or  sword,  or  spear,  —  yet  in  his  mien 

Command  sat  throned  serene,  and  if  he  smiled, 

A  kingly  condescension  graced  his  lips, 

The  lion  would  have  crouched  to  in  his  lair. 

His  garb  was  simple,  and  his  sandals  worn  ; 

His  stature  modelled  with  a  perfect  grace  ; 

His  countenance,  the  impress  of  a  God, 

Touched  with  the  open  innocence  of  a  child  ; 

His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 

In  the  serenest  noon  ;  his  hair  unshorn 

Fell  to  his  shoulders  ;  and  his  curling  beard 

The  fulness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 

He  looked  on  Helon  earnestly  awhile, 

As  if  his  heart  was  moved,  and,  stooping  down, 

He  took  a  little  water  in  his  hand 

And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said,  "  Be  clean  !  " 

And  lo  !  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 

Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veins, 

And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 

The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 

His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 

Prostrate  at  Jesus'  feet,  and  worshipped  him. 
Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


THE   MINSTREL. 

FROM    "THE   MINSTREL   EDWIN." 

There  lived  in  Gothic  days,  as  legends  tell, 
A  shepherd  swain,  a  man  of  low  degree  ; 
Whose  sires,  perchance,  in  Fairy-land  might 

dwell, 
Sicilian  groves,  or  vales  of  A  ready  ; 
But  he,  1  ween,  was  of  the  north  countrie,  — 
A  nation  famed  for  song,  and  beauty's  charms  ; 
Zealous,  yet  modest;  innocent,  though  free  ; 
Patient  of  toil ;  serene  amidst  alarms  ; 
Inflexible  in  faith  ;  invincible  in  arms. 

The  shepherd  swain,  of  whom  I  mention  made, 

On  Scotia's  mountains  fed  his  little  Hock  ; 

The  sickle,  scythe,  or  plough  he  never  swayed; 

An  honest  heart  was  almost  all  his  stock  ; 

His  drink  the  living  water  from  the  rock  ; 

The  milky  dams  supplied  his  board,  and  lent 

Their  kindly  fleece  to  baffle  winter's  shock  ; 

And  he,  though  oft   with  dust  and  sweat  be- 
sprent. 
Did  guide  and  guard   their  wanderings,  where- 
soe'er  they  went. 

From  labor  health,  from  health  contentment 
springs  : 

(  '.intent  I  net  it    "pes  the  si  Hi  fee   of  every  JOV. 

1I>' envied  not,  he  never  thought  of,  kings; 
Nor  from  those  appetites  sustained  annoy, 
That  chance  may  frustrate,  or  indulgence  cloy : 


43— 


538 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


a 


Nor  Fate  his  calm  and  humble  hopes  beguiled  ; 
He  mourned  no  recreant  friend  nor  mistress  coy, 
For  on  his  vows  the  blameless  Phoebe  smiled, 
And  her  alone  he  loved,  and  loved  her  from  a  child. 

No  jealousy  their  dawn  of  love  o'ercast, 
Nor  blasted  were  their  wedded  days  with  strife ; 
Each  season  looked  delightful,  as  it  passed, 
To  the  fond  husband  and  the  faithful  wife. 
Beyond  the  lowly  vale  of  shepherd  life 
They  never  roamed  ;  secure  beneath  the  storm 
Which  in  Ambition's  lofty  land  is  rife, 
"Where  peace  and   love   are  cankered  by  the 
worm 
Of  pride,  each  bud  of  joy  industrious  to  deform. 

The  wight,  whose  tale  these  artless  lines  unfold, 
"Was  all  the  offspring  of  this  humble  pair  ; 
His  birth  no  oracle  or  seer  foretold  ; 
No  prodigy  appeared  in  earth  or  air, 
Nor  aught  that  might  a  strange  event  declare. 
You  guess  each  circumstance  of  Edwin's  birth  ; 
The  parent's  transport  and  the  parent's  care  ; 
The  gossip's  prayer  for  wealth   and   wit  and 
worth  ; 
And  one  long  summer  day  of  indolence  and  mirth. 

And  yet  poor  Edwin  was  no  vulgar  boy  ; 

Deep  thought  oft  seemed  to  fix  his  infant  eye. 

Dainties  he  heeded  not,  nor  gaud,  nor  toy, 

Save  one  short  pipe  of  rudest  minstrelsy  ; 

Silent  when  glad  ;  affectionate  though  shy  ; 

And  now  his  look  was  most  demurely  sad  ; 

And  now  he  laughed  aloud,  yet  none  knew  why. 

The  neighbors  stared  and  sighed,  yet  blessed 
the  lad  : 
Some  deemed  him  wondrous  wise,  and  some  be- 
lieved him  mad. 

But  why  should  I  his  childish  feats  display  ? 
Concourse  and  noise  and  toil  he  ever  fled  ; 
Nor  cared  to  mingle  in  the  clamorous  fray 
Of  squabbling  imps  ;  but  to  the  forest  sped, 
Or  roamed  at  large  the  lonely  mountain's  head, 
Or,  where  the  maze  of  some  bewildered  stream 
To  deep  untrodden  groves  his  footsteps  led, 
There  would  he  wander  wild,  till  Phoebus'  beam, 
Shot  from  the  western  cliff,  released  the  weary 
team. 

The  exploit  of  strength,  dexterity,  or  speed, 

To  him  nor  vanity  nor  joy  could  bring  ; 

Hi.-^  heart,  from  cruel  sport  estranged,  would 

bleed 
To  work  the  woe  of  any  living  thing, 
By  trap  or  net,  by  arrow  or  by  sling  ; 
These  he  detested  ;  th  ise  he  scorned  to  wield  ; 
He  wished  to  be  the  guardian,  not  the  king, 


Tyrant  far  less,  or  traitor  of  the  field  ; 
And  sure  the  sylvan  reign  unbloody  joy  might 
yield. 

Lo  !  where  the  stripling,  rapt  in  wonder,  roves 
Beneath  the  precipice  o'erhung  with  pine  ; 
And  sees,  on  high,  amidst  the  encircling  groves, 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  foaming  torrents  shine, 
While  waters,  woods,  and  winds,  in  concert 

join, 
And  Echo  swells  the  chorus  to  the  skies. 
Would  Edwin  this  majestic  scene  resign 
For  aught  the  huntsman's  puny  craft  supplies  ? 
Ah  !  no  :  he  better  knows  great  Nature's  charms 

to  prize. 

And  oft  he  traced  the  uplands,  to  survey, 
When  o'er  the  sky  advanced  the  kindling  dawn, 
The  crimson  cloud,  blue  main,  and  mountain 

gray, 
And  lake,  dim  gleaming  on  the  smoky  lawn  : 
Far  to  the  west  the  long,  long  vale  withdrawn, 
While  twilight  loves  to  linger  for  a  while  ; 
And  now  he  faintly  kens  the  bounding  fawn, 
And  villager  abroad  at  early  toil. 
But,  lo  !  the  Sun  appears  !  and  heaven,  earth, 
ocean,  smile. 

And  oft  the  craggy  cliff  he  loved  to  climb, 
"When  all  in  mist  the  world  below  was  lost. 
What  dreadful  pleasure  !  there  to  stand  sub- 
lime, 
Like  shipwrecked  mariner  on  desert  coast, 
And  view  the  enormous  waste  of  vapor,  tossed 
In  billows,  lengthening  to  the  horizon  round, 
Now  scooped   in  gulfs,  with  mountains  now 

embossed  ! 
And  hear  the  voice  of  mirth  and  song  rebound, 
Flocks,  herds,  and  waterfalls,  along  the  hoar  pro- 
found ! 

In  truth  he  was  a  strange  and  wayward  wight, 

Fond  of  each  gentle  and  each  dreadful  scene. 

In  darkness  and  in  storm  he  found  delight  ; 

Nor  less,  than  when  on  ocean  wave  serene 

The  southern  sun  diffused  his  dazzling  shene.* 

Even  sad  vicissitude  amused  his  soul ; 

And  if  a  sigh  would  sometimes  intervene, 

And  down  his  cheek  a  tear  of  pity  roll, 

A  sigh,  a  tear,  so  sweet,  he  wished  not  to  control. 

James  Beattie. 


THE    BELLS. 

I. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells,  — ■ 
Silver  bells,  — 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melodyforetells  ! 

*  Brightness,  splendor.     The  word  is  used  by  some  late 
writers,  as  well  as  by  Milton. 


I&- 


tf 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


539 


How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night  ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight,  — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

II. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells,  — 
Golden  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon  ! 
0,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  tli.'  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Px-lls,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 

in. 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells,  — 
Brazen  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright  ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In  the  clamorous  appealing  tothemercyofthefire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic 
fire 
I  ii  aping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  i  ore, 

And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Now      now  to  -it  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
0  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Whal  ■■>  tale  their  terror  tells 
( If  despair  ! 
How  they  clang  and  clash  and  roar  ! 
Whal  ;i  hoiTor  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 


Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 
bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  ! 

IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  — 
Iron  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody 
compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people,  - —  ah,  the  people,  — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone,  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman,  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human,  — 

They  are  ghouls  : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
Ami  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Polls, 
A  ppean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  p?ean  of  the  bells  ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  ptean  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  hell,,  bells,— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  hells,  — 

Of  the  hells,    hells,    hells,— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 


fr- 


~ff 


510 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


■a 


Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Edgar  Allan  Toe. 


THE  BELLS   OF  SHANDON. 

Sabbata  pango  ; 
Funera  plango ; 
Solemnia  clango. 

INSCRIPTION  ON  AN  OLD  BELL. 

"With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
"Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee,  — 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  ; 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican,  — 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame  ; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 


Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 
Oh  !  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There  's  a  bell  in  Moscow  ; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  0 
In  St.  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them  ; 
But  there  's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me,  — 
'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

FATHER  PROUT   (Francis  Mahony). 


THE   GREAT   BELL  ROLAND. 

Toll  !  Roland,  toll  ! 

—  High  in  St.  Bavon's  tower, 
At  midnight  hour, 

The  great  bell  Roland  spoke, 
And  all  who  slept  in  Ghent  awoke. 

—  What  meant  its  iron  stroke  ? 
Why  caught  each  man  his  blade  ? 
Why  the  hot  haste  he  made  ? 
Why  echoed  every  street 

With  tramp  of  thronging  feet,  — 

All  flying  to  the  city's  wall  ? 

It  was  the  call, 

Known  well  to  all, 

That  Freedom  stood  in  peril  of  some  foe 

And  even  timid  hearts  grew  bold, 

Whenever  Roland  tolled, 

And  every  hand  a  sword  could  hold  ;  — 

For  men 

Were  patriots  then, 

Three  hundred  years  ago  ! 

Toll  !  Roland,  toll  ! 
Bell  never  yet  was  hung, 
Between  whose  lips  there  swung 
So  true  and  brave  a  tongue  ! 

—  If  men  be  patriots  still, 
At  thy  first  sound 
True  hearts  will  bound, 

Great  souls  will  thrill,  — 
Then  toll  I  and  wake  the  test 


-ff 


r& 


—4=*- 


DESCRIPT1VE   POEMS. 


541 


k 


In  each  man's  bi'east, 

And  let  liim  stand  confessed  ! 

Toll  !  Roland,  toll ! 

—  Not  in  St.  Bavon's  tower, 
At  midnight  hour,  — 

Nor  by  the  Scheldt,  nor  far  off  Zuyder  Zee  ; 
But  here,  —  this  side  the  sea  !  — 
And  here,  in  broad,  bright  day  ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll  ! 
For  not  by  night  awaits 
A  brave  foe  at  the  gates, 

But  Treason  stalks  abroad  —  inside  !  —  at  noon  ! 
Toll  !     Thy  alarm  is  not  too  soon  ! 
To  arms  !     Ring  out  the  Leader's  call  ! 
Re-echo  it  from  east  to  west, 
Till  every  dauntless  breast 
Swell  beneath  plume  and  crest ! 
Till  swords  from  scabbards  leap  ! 

—  What  tears  can  widows  weep 

Less  bitter  than  when  brave  men  fall  ? 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Till  cottager  from  cottage  wall 
Snatch  pouch  and  powder-horn  and  gun,  — 
The  heritage  of  sire  to  son, 
Ere  half  of  Freedom's  work  was  done  ! 

Toll  !     Roland,  toll ! 
Till  son,  in  memory  of  his  sire, 
Once  more  shall  load  and  lire  ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Till  volunteers  find  out  the  art 
Of  aiming  at  a  traitor's  heart ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll  ! 

—  St.  Bavon's  stately  tower 
Stands  to  this  hour,  — 

And  by  its  side  stands  Freedom  yet  in  Ghent ; 
For  when  the  bells  now  ring, 
Men  shout,  "God  save  the  king  !  " 

Until  the  air  is  rent  ! 

—  Amen  !  —  So  let  it  be  ; 
For  a  true  king  is  he 
Who  keeps  his  people  free. 

Toll  :  Roland,  toll ! 
This  side  the 
No  longer  they,  but  we, 
Have  now  Buch  need  of  thee  1 

Toll  !  Roland,  toll  I 
And  let  thy  iron  thiol 
bin'.'  "mi  its  warning  note, 
Till  Freedom's  perils  he  outbraved, 
And  Freedom's  nag,  wherever  waved, 
Shall  <>\ er  badow  none  enslaved  ! 
Toll  !  till  from  either  ocean's  strand 
Brave  men  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 
And  shout,  "God  trar  native  land  !  " 

—  And  love  the  land  which  God  hath  saved! 

Toll  1  Roland,  toll  I 

Theodore  Tilton. 


TOLL,    THEN,    NO   MORE! 

Toll  for  the  dead,  toll,  toll ! 
No,  no  !    Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  out  and  shout. 
For  they  the  pearly  gates  have  entered  in, 
And  they  no  more  shall  sin,  — 
Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring,  ring ! 

Toll  for  the  living,  toll ! 
No,  no  !     Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  out  and  shout, 
For  they  do  His  work  tho'  midst  toil  and  din, 
They,  too,  the  goal  shall  win,  — 

Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring,  ring  ! 

Toll  for  the  coming,  toll ! 
No,  no  !     Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring  out  and  shout, 
For  it  is  theirs  to  conquer,  theirs  to  win 
The  final  entering  in,  — 

Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring,  ring  ! 

Toll,  then,  no  more,  ye  bells  ! 
No,  no  !     Ring  out,  0  bells,  ring  out  and  shout : 
The  "Was,  the  Is,  the  Shall  Be,  and  all  men 
Are  in  His  hand  !     Amen  ! 

Ring  out,  ye  bells,  ring,  ring  ! 

R.   R.  BOWKER. 


CITY   BELLS. 

FROM   THE   LAY   OF  ST.    ALOY's. 

Lotjd  and  clear 
From  the  St.  Nicholas'  tower,  on  the  listening  ear, 

With  solemn  swell, 

The  deep-toned  bell 
Flings  to  the  gale  a  funeral  knell ; 

And  hark  !  —  at  its  sound, 

As  a  cunning  old  hound, 
When  he  opens,  at  once  causes  all  the  young  whelps 
Of  the  cry  to  put  in  their  less  dignified  yelps, 

So — the  ltitle  bells  all, 

No  matter  how  small, 
From  the  steeples  both  inside  and  outside  the  wall, 

With  bell-metal  throat 

Respond  to  the  note, 
And  join  the  lament  that  a  prelate  so  pious  is 
Forced  thus  to  leave  his  disconsolate  diocese, 

Or,  as  Blois'  Lord  May'r 

Is  heard  to  declare, 

"Should  leave  this  here  world  for  to  go  to  that 

there." 

Richard  Harris  Barham. 


SEVEN   TIMES   TWO. 

ROMANCE. 

You  bells  in   the  Bteeple,  ring,  ring  out  your 
changes, 

How  many  soever  they  be, 


542 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


a 


And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note  as  lie  ranges 
Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 

Yet  birds'  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  by  swelling 

No  magical  sense  conveys, 
And  bells  have  forgotten  their  old  art  of  telling 

The  fortune  of  future  days. 

"  Turn  again,  turn  again,"  once  they  rang  cheerily 

While  a  boy  listened  alone  : 
Made  his  heart  yearn  again,  musing  so  wearily 

All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 

Poor  bells  !  I  forgive  you  ;  your  good  days  are 
over, 
And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be  ; 
No  listening,  no  longing,  shall  aught,  aught  dis- 
cover : 
You  leave  the  story  to  me. 

JEAN  INGELOW. 


OZYMANDIAS   OF   EGYPT. 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
"Who  said  :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
W 1 1  i  ■■!  i  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that 

fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  : 
"  .My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair  ! " 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLEY. 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    MUMMY    AT    BEL- 
ZONI'S   EXHIBITION. 

And  thou   hast  walked  about,   (how  strange  a 
story  ! ) 

In  Thebes's  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 
When  the  .Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 

And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 
Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 
Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous. 

Speak  !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy  ; 
Thou  hast  a  tongue,  —  come,  let  us  hear  its 
tune  ; 
Thou  'it   standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground, 
mummy ! 
Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  — 


Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 
But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs,  and 
features. 

Tell  us  —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect  — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame  ? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer  ? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade,  — 

Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest,  —  if  so,  my  struggles 

Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perhaps  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 
Hashob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass ; 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat ; 
Or  dotted  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass  ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled  ; 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed, 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled  : 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develop  —  if  that  withered  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have 
seen  — 
How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and 
young, 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it  green  ; 
Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  history's  pages 
Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? . 

Still  silent  !  incommunicative  elf  ! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?  then  keep  thy  vows  ; 
But  prithee  tell  us  something  of  thyself,  — 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house  ; 
Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou   hast  slum- 
bered, — 
What  hast  thou  seen,  —  what  strange  adventures 
numbered  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended 
We   have,  above  ground,  seen  some   strange 
mutations  ; 
The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended,  — 
New  worlds  have  risen,  —  we  have  lost  old  na- 
tions ; 
And  countlesskings  have  intodustbeen  humbled, 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 


ty-- 


s1 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


543 


ft 


Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head, 
"When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Camhyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering 
tread,  — 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis  ; 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

"When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  : 
A    heart   has   throbbed   beneath   that   leathern 
breast, 
And  tears  adown  that  dusty  cheek  have  rolled  ; 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed 

that  face  ? 
"What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh,  —  immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 
Posthumous  man,  — who  quit'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence  ! 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothingtill  the  judgment  morning, 
"When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its 
warning. 

"Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever  ? 

0,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 
In  living  virtue,  —  that  when  both  must  sever, 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom  ! 

Horace  smith. 


ANSWER   OF    THE   MUMMY  AT  BELZO- 
NI'S   EXHIBITION. 

Child  of  the  later  days  !  thy  words  have  broken 
A  spell  that  long  has  bound  these  lungs  of  clay, 

For  since  this  smoke-dried  tongue  of  mine  hath 
I -'ken 
Three  thousand  tedious  years  have  rolled  away. 

Unswathed  al  length,  I  "stand  at  ease  "before  ye. 

List,  then,  O  list,  while  I  unfold  my  story. 

Thebea  was  my  birthplace,  — an  unrivalled  city 
With  many  gates,  — but  here  I  might  declare 

Some  strange,  plain  truths,  except  that  itwerepity 
To  Mow  a  poet's  fabric  into  air  ; 

0,  I  could  read  you  quite  a  Theban  lecture, 

And  give  a  deadly  finish  to  conjecture. 

hen  you  would  not  have  me  throw  discredit 
i  >n  grave  historians, — or  on  him  who  sung 
Tl     Iliad,  —  true  it  is  I  never  read  it, 

1'iiH  heard  it  read,  when  I  was  very  young. 
An  old  blind  minstrel  for  a  trifling  profit 
Recited  parts,  —  I  think  the  author  of  it. 


All  that  1  know  about  the  town  of  Homer 

Is  that  they  scarce  would  own  him  in  his  day, 

Were  glad,  too,  when  he  proudly  turned  a  roamer, 
Because  by  this  they  saved  their  parish  pay. 

His  townsmen  would  have  been  ashamed  to  flout 
him, 

Had  they  foreseen  the  fuss  since  made  about  him. 

One  blunder  I  can  fairly  set  at  rest  : 

He  says  that  men  were  once  more  big  and  bony 
Than  now,  which  is  a  bouncer  at  the  best  ; 

I  '11  just  refer  you  to  our  friend  Belzoni, 
Near  seven  feet  high  ;  in  truth  a  lofty  figure. 
Now  look  at  me,  —  and  tell  me,  —  am  I  bigger  ? 

Not  half  the  size,  but  then  I  'm  sadly  dwindled, 
Three  thousand  years  with  that  embalming  glue 

Have  made  a  serious  difference,  and  have  swindled 
My  face  of  all  its  beauty  ;  there  were  few 

Egyptian  youths  more  gay,  —  behold  the  sequel. 

Nay,  smile  not ;  you  and  I  may  soon  be  equal. 

For  this  lean  hand  did  one  day  hurl  the  lance 
With  mortal  aim  ;  this  light,  fantastic  toe 

Threaded  the  mystic  mazes  of  the  dance  ; 

This  heart  has  throbbed  at  tales  of  love  and  woe ; 

These  shreds  of  raven  hair  once  set  the  fashion  ; 

This  withered  form  inspired  the  tender  passion. 

In  vain  ;  the  skilful  hand  and  feelings  warm, 
The  foot  that  figured  in  the  bright  quadrille, 

The  palm  of  genius  and  the  manly  form, 

All  bowed  at  once  to  Death's  mysterious  will, 

Who  sealed  me  up  where  mummies  sound   are 
sleeping, 

In  cerecloth  and  in  tolerable  keeping ; 

Where  cows  and  monkeys  squat  in  rich  brocade, 

And  well-dressed  crocodiles  in  painted  cases, 
Rats,  bats,  and  owls,  and  cats  in  masquerade, 

Withscarlet  flounces,  and  with  varnished  faces ; 
Then  birds,  brutes,  reptiles,   fish,   all  crammed 

together, 
With   ladies   that  might  pass  for  well-tanned 
leather ; 

Where  Rameses  and  Sabacon  lie  down, 
And  splendid  Psammis  in  his  hide  of  crust, 

Princes  and  heroes, — men  of  high  renown, 
Who  in  their  day  kicked  up  a  mighty  dust. 

Their  swarthy  mummies  kicked  up  dust  in  num- 
ber, 

When  huge  Belzoni  came  to  scare  their  slumber. 

Who'dthink these  rusty  hams  of  mine  were  seated 
At  Dido's  table,  when  the  wondrous  tale 

Of  "Juno's  hatred  "  was  so  well  repeated  ? 
And  ever  and  anon  the  Queen  turned  pale. 

Meanwhile  the  brilliant  gaslights  hung  above  her 

Threw  a  wild  glare  upon  her  shipwrecked  lover. 


m- 


■-# 


n  .- 


544 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


Ay,  gaslights  !     Mock  me  not,  —  we  men  of  yore 
"Were  versed  in  all  the  knowledge  you  can  men- 
tion ; 

Who  hath  not  heard  of  Egypt's  peerless  lore, 
Her  patient  toil,  acuteness  of  invention  ? 

Survey  the  proofs,  —  the  pyramids  are  thriving, 

Old  Memnon  still  looks  young,  and  I  'm  surviving. 

A  land  in  arts  and  sciences  prolific, 

0  block  gigantic,  building  up  her  fame, 
Crowded  with  signs  and  letters  hieroglyphic, 

Temples  and  obelisks  her  skill  proclaim  ! 
Yet  though  her  art  and  toil  unearthly  seem, 
Those  blocks  were  brought  on  railroads  and  by 
steam  ! 

How,  when,  and  why  our  people  came  to  rear 
The  pyramid  of  Cheops,  —  mighty  pile  ?  — 
This,  and  the  other  secrets,  thou  shalt  hear  ; 

1  will  unfold,  if  thou  wilt  stay  awhile, 
The  history  of  the  Sphinx,  and  who  began  it, 
Our  mystic  works,  and  monsters  made  of  granite. 

Well,  then,  in  grievous  times,  when  King  Ce- 
phrenes, 
But  ah  !  —  What 's  this  !  the  shades  of  bards 
and  kings 
Press  on  my  lips  their  fingers !  What  they  mean  is, 

I  am  not  to  reveal  these  hidden  things. 
Mortal,  farewell !   Till  Science'  self  unbind  them, 
Men  must  e'en  take  these  secrets  as  they  find  them. 

ANONYMOUS. 


ADDRESS    TO    THE     ALABASTER    SAR- 
COPHAGUS 

LATELY   DEPOSITED    IN   THE   BRITISH    MUSEUM. 

Thou  alabaster  relic  !  while  I  hold 

My  hand  upon  thy  sculptured  margin  thrown, 
Let  me  recall  the  scenes  thou  couldst  unfold, 
Mightst  thou   relate   the   changes   thou  hast 
known, 
For  thou  wert  primitive  in  thy  formation, 
Launched  from  the  Almighty's/  hand  at  the  Crea- 
tion. 

Yes,  —  thou  wert  present  when  the  stars  and  skies 
Ami  worldsunnumbered  rolled  into  their  places ; 

When  God  from  Chaos  bade  the  spheres  arise, 
And  fixed  the  blazing  sun  upon  its  basis, 

And  with  his  finger  on  the  bounds  of  space 

Marked  out  each  planet's  everlasting  race. 

How  many  thousand  ages  from  thy  birth 

Thou  slept'st  in  darkness,  it  were  vain  to  ask, 

Till  Egypt's  sons  upheaved  thee  from  the  earth, 
And  year  by  year  pursued  their  patient  task  ; 


Till  thou  wert  carved  and  decorated  thus, 
Worthy  to  be  a  king's  sarcophagus. 

What  time  Elijah  to  the  skies  ascended, 
Or  David  reigned  in  holy  Palestine, 

Some  ancient  Theban  monarch  was  extended 
Beneath  the  lid  of  this  emblazoned  shrine, 

And  to  that  subterranean  palace  borne 

Which  toiling  ages  in  the  rock  had  worn. 

Thebes  from  her  hundred  portals  filled  the  plain 
To  see  the  car  on  which  thou  wert  upheld  :  — 
What  funeral  pomps  extended  in  thy  train, 
What   banners   waved,    what   mighty   music 
swelled, 
As  armies,  priests,  and  crowds  bewailed  in  chorus 
Their  King,  —  their  God, — their  Serapis,  —  their 
Orus ! 

Thus  to  thy  second  quarry  did  they  trust 
Thee  and  the  Lord  of  all  the  nations  round. 

Grim  King  of  Silence  !     Monarch  of  the  Dust  ! 
Embalmed,     anointed,     jewelled,      sceptred, 
crowned, 

Here  did  he  lie  in  state,  cold,  stiff,  and  stark, 

A  leathern  Pharaoh  grinning  in  the  dark. 

Thus  ages  rolled,  but  their  dissolving  breath 
Could  only  blacken  that  imprisoned  thing 

Which  wore  a  ghastly  royalty  in  death, 
As  if  it  struggled  still  to  be  a  king  ; 

And  each  revolving  century,  like  the  last, 

Just  dropped  its  dust  upon  thy  lid —  and  passed. 

The  Persian  conqueror  o'er  Egypt  poured 
His  devastating  host, — a  motley  crew  ; 

The  steel-clad  horseman,  — the  barbarian  horde,  — 
Music  and  men  of  every  sound  and  hue,  — 

Priests,  archers,  eunuchs,  concubines,  and  brutes,  — 

Gongs,  trumpets,  cymbals,  dulcimers,  and  lutes. 

Then  did  the  fierce  Cambyses  tear  away 

The  ponderous  rock  that  sealed  the  sacred  tomb ; 

Then  did  the  slowly  penetrating  ray 

Redeem  thee  from  long  centuries  of  gloom, 

And  lowered  torches  flashed  against  thy  side 

As  Asia's  king  thy  blazoned  trophies  eyed. 

Plucked  from  his  grave,  with  sacrilegious  taunt, 
The  features  of  the  royal  corpse  they  scanned :  — 

Dashing  the  diadem  from  his  temple  gaunt, 
They  tore  the  sceptre  from  his  graspless  hand, 

And  on  those  fields,  where  once  his  will  was  law, 

Left  him  for  winds  to  waste  and  beasts  to  gnaw. 

Some  pious  Thebans,  when  the  storm  was  past, 
Unclosed  the  sepulchre  with  cunning  skill, 

And  nature,  aiding  their  devotion,  cast 
Over  its  entrance  a  concealing  rill. 

Then  thythird  darkness  came,  and  thou  didst  sleep 

Twenty-three  centuries  in  silence  deep. 


[0- 


$ 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


545 


^ 


But  he  from  whom  nor  pyramid  nor  Sphinx 
Can  hide  its  secrecies,  Belzoni,  came  ; 

From  the  tomb's  mouth  unloosed  the  granite  links, 
Gave  thee  again  to  light  and  life  and  fame. 

And  brought  thee  from  the  sands  and  desert  forth 

To  charm  the  pallid  children  of  the  North. 

Thou  art  in  London,  which,  when  thou  wert  new, 
Was,  what  Thebes  is,  a  wilderness  and  waste, 

Where  savage  beasts  more  savage  men  pursue,  — 
A  scene  by  nature  cursed,  — by  man  disgraced. 

Now — 't  is  the  world's  metropolis — the  high 

Queen  of  arms,  learning,  arts,  and  luxury. 

Here,  where  I  hold  my  hand,  't  is  strange  to  think 
What  other  hands  perchance  preceded  mine  ; 

Others  have  also  stood  beside  thy  brink, 
And  vainly  conned  the  moralizing  line. 

Kings,  sages,  chiefs,  that  touched  this  stone,  like 
me, 

Where  are  ye  now? — where  all  must  shortly  be  ! 

All  is  mutation  ; — he  within  this  stone 

Was  once  the  greatest  monarch  of  the  hour :  — 

His  bones  are  dust,  —  his  very  name  unknown. 
Go, — learn  from  him  the  vanity  of  power  : 

Seek  not  the  frame's  conniption  to  control, 

But  build  a  lasting  mansion  for  thy  soul. 

Horace  Smith. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring 

swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed. 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  h  that  topped  the  neighboring 

hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  I 
How  often  have  1  blessed  the  coming  d 
"When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 
fart  and  feats  of  strength  went  round; 
each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeed]  the  mirthful  hand  inspired  ; 


The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place  ; 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  re- 
prove, — 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like 

these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please  ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed, 
These  were  thy  charms,  —  but  all  these  charms 
are  fled  ! 
Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  ; 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain  ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way  ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall, 
And,  trembling,  shrinkingfrom  thespoiler'shand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made  ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  Labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more  : 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered  ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumberous  pomp  repose, 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  thai  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  thai  plenty  hade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  tha  I  but  little  room, 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful 
ne, 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green, — 
These,  far  departing,  Beek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 


t  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's 
clo  i  . 


-& 


a- 


546 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


dp  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young  ; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering 

wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind,  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  rilled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot- way  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring  ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn  ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near   yonder  copse,  where   once    the   garden 

smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild  ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year  ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his 

place  ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
Mure  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train. 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast. 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed  ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away  ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed   how  fields 

were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to 

glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  wns  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side  ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
II'-  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all  ; 


And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  ofl'spring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  dis- 
tressed ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 

spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitable  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school ; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned  ; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  times  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge  ; 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still, 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering 

sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  the}'  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot, 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye. 


& 


~& 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


•-a 


547 


Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspired, 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  pro- 
found, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place,  — 
The  whitewashed  wall ;  the  nicely  sanded  floor  ; 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door ; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day  ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use ; 
The  twelve  good  rules ;  the  royal  game  of  goose  ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay  ; 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row, 

As  some  fair  female  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes, 
But  when  those  charms  are  past, — for  charms  are 

frail,  — 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress; 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed, 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms,  — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah  !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

[f  to  tin-  city  sped,  —  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 

I  e  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind  ; 

To  sei  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  From  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 

II  re,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  : 

lb  iv,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 

display, 
There  the  black  gibbel  glooms  beside  the  way. 
Tin'  dome  where   Pleasure  holds  her  midnighl 

reign, 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  : 
lultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
Tic  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 


Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy  ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  —  Ah,  turn  thine 

eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn, 
Now  lost  to  all  :  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 
And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 

shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 
Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest 

train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  ! 
Ah,  no  !     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracks  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore,  — 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing. 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling  ; 
Those    poisonous    fields   with    rank   luxuriance 

crowned, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  then  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good    Heaven!    what   sorrows  gloomed   that 

parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away  ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their 

last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  scats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  dec]', 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire,  the  firsl  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 
Bui  for  himself  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  world.-,  beyond  the  grave. 


~ff 


a- 


548 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose  ; 

And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a 

tear, 

And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees, 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air  ; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper,  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills, 
O'er  the  dun  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  further  and  the  stream  sang 
low, 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  with  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood  like  some  sad,  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 

On  sombre  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight ; 
The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  com- 
plaint ; 
And,  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 
The  village  church  vane  seemed  to  pale  and 
faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hillside  crew,  — 
I  'n\v  thrice,  —  and  all  was  stiller  than  before  ; 

Silent,  till  some  replying  warden  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's  tall  crest, 
.Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged 
young  ; 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung  ; 

Where  sang  the  noisy  martens  of  the  eves, 
Tie-  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near,  — 

Fori  boding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year  ; 


Where  every  bird  that  waked  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at 
morn, 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east ;  — 
All  now  was  sunless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble,  piped  the  quail  ; 

And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreary 
gloom  ; 
Alone,  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 

Made  echo  in  the  distance  to  the  cottage-loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers  ; 

The  spiders  moved  their  thin  shrouds  night  by 
night, 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by,  —  passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this —  in  this  most  dreary  air, 

And  wdiere  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there, 
Firing  the  floor  with  its  inverted  torch,  — 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The   white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous 
tread, 

Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien 
Sat  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow.    He  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and   broke  with  her  the   ashen 
crust, 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  thick  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer 
bloom, 

Her  country  summoned  and  she  gave  her  all  ; 
And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume,  — 

Re-gave  the  sword  to  rust  upon  the  wall. 

Re-gave  the  sword,  but  not  the  hand  that  drew 
And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow  ; 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 
Fell  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous 

tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped,  —  her  head  was 
bowed  ; 
Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  her  hands 
serene  ; 
And    loving   neighbors    smoothed    her    careful 
shroud, 
While  death  and  winter  closed  the  autumn 
scene. 


Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


FT) 
-i — — *-■ 


a- 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


549       1 


PEACE   IN   ACADIE. 

FROM    "  EVANGELINE. " 

Tins  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmuring 
pines  and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  in- 
distinct in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and 
prophetic, 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest 
on  their  bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced 
neighboring  ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the 
wail  of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval ;  but  where  are  the 
hearts  that  beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  wood- 
land the  voice  of  the  huntsman  ? 

In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin 

of  Minas, 
Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand- 

Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.  Vast  meadows  stretched 

to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks 

without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised 

with  labor  incessant, 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides  ;  but  at  stated  sea- 
sons the  il l-gates 

Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will 

o'er  the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  or- 
chards ami  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain  ;  and 

away  to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on 

tin-  mountains 
Si  i  fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the 

mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their 

station  descended. 
There,   in  the  midst    of  its  farms,   reposed  the 
Acadian  vili 

buill  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of 
oak  ami  of  chestnut, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the 

n  of  the  Henries. 
Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows  ; 
and  gables  projecting 
i  he  basement  bekw  protected  and  shaded  the 

d "way. 

There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when 
brightly  the  sunset 
Led  i he  village  street,  ami  gilded  the  vanes 
cm  the  chimn 


Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and 

in  kirtles 
Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning 

the  golden 
Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shut- 
tles within  doors 
Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels 

and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 
Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest, 

and  the  children 
Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended 

to  bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them  ;  and  up  rose 

matrons  and  maidens, 
Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affection- 
ate welcome. 
Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and 

serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.     Anon 

from  the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs 

of  the  village 
Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  in- 
cense ascending, 
Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace 

and  contentment. 
Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian 

farmers,  — 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.     Alike 

were  they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the 

vice  of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to 

their  windows  ; 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the 

hearts  of  the  owners  ; 
There  the  richest  were  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived 
in  abundance. 
Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,  and  nearer 
the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Benedict'  Bellefontaine,  the  wealthiest  farmer  of 

Grand- Pre, 
Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres  ;  and  with  him,  direct- 
ing his  household, 
Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride 

of  the  village. 
Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of 

seventy  winters  ; 
Hearty  and  hide  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered 

with  snow-flakes  ; 
White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cb 

as  brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 
Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen 

summers. 
Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on 

the  thorn  by  the  wayside, 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the 
brown  shade  of  her  tresses  ! 


IB— 


550 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


■a 


Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that 

feed  in  the  meadows, 
"When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers 

at  noontide 
Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah !  fair  in  sooth  was 

the  maiden. 
Fairer  was  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the 

bell  from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest 

with  his  hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings 

upon  them, 
Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chaplet 

of  beads  and  her  missal, 
Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle  of  blue, 

and  the  ear-rings, 
Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and  since, 

as  an  heirloom, 
Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long 

generations. 
But  a  celestial  brightness,  a  more  ethereal  beauty, 
Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when, 

after  confession, 
Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  bene- 
diction upon  her. 
"When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing 

of  exquisite  music. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


EVANGELINE   ON   THE   PRAIRIE. 

Beautiful  was  the  night.     Behind  the  black 

wall  of  the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon. 

On  the  river 
Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremu- 
lous gleam  of  the  moonlight, 
Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened 

and  devious  spirit. 
Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers 

of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their 

prayers  and  confessions 
Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a  silent 

Carthusian. 
Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with 

shadows  and  night-dews, 
Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.     The  calm  and 

the  magical  moonlight 
Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable 

longings, 
As,  through  the  garden  gate,  and  beneath  the 

shade  of  the  oak-trees, 
Passed  she  along  tin-  path  to  the  edge  of  the  meas- 

ureless  prairie. 
Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  .and  fire- 
flies 


Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  in- 
finite numbers. 

Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in 
the  heavens, 

Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to  mar- 
vel and  worship, 

Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls 
of  that  temple, 

As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them, 
"  Upharsin." 

And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars  and 
the  fire-flies, 

Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  ' '  0  Gabriel !  0 
my  beloved  ! 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot  be- 
hold thee  ? 

Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does 
not  reach  me  ? 

Ah  !  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to  the 
prairie  ! 

Ah  !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the 
woodlands  around  me  ! 

Ah  !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from 
labor, 

Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me 
in  thy  slumbers. 

When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  be  fold- 
ed about  thee  ? " 

Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whip- 
poorwill  sounded 

Like  a  flute  in  the  woods  ;  and  anon,  through  the 
neighboring  thickets, 

Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped 
into  silence. 

"Patience  !"  whispered  the  oaks  from  oracular 
caverns  of  darkness  ; 

And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  responded, 

"To-morrow!" 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


WEEHAWKEN  AND   THE  BAY  OF  NEW 
YORK. 

FROM    "FANNY." 

Weehawken  !     In  thy  mountain  scenery  yet, 
All  we  adore  of  Nature  in  her  wild 

And  frolic  hour  of  infancy  is  met ; 

And  never  has  a  summer's  morning  smiled 

Upon  a  lovelier  scene  than  the  full  eye 

Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on,  —  when  high 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes  he  climbs 

O'er  crags  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep, 

And  knows  that  sense  of  danger  which  sublimes 
The  breathless  moment,  — when  hisdaringstep 


[B- 


tf 


rB 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


551 


■a 


Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 
The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear, 

Like  the  death-music  of  his  coming  doom, 
And  clings  to  the  green  turf  with  desperate  force, 

As  the  heart  clings  to  life  ;  and  when  resume 
The  currents  in  his  veins  their  wonted  course, 

There  lingers  a  deep  feeling,  —  like  the  moan 

Of  wearied  ocean  when  the  storm  is  gone. 

In  such  an  hour  he  turns,  and  on  his  view, 
Ocean  and  earth  and  heaven  hurst  before  him ; 

Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 
Of  summer's  sky  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him,  — 

The  city  bright  below  ;  and  far  away, 

Sparkling  in  golden  light,  his  own  romantic  bay. 

Tall  spire,  and  glittering  roof,  and  battlement, 
And  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air  ; 

And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waters  bent, 
Greenisle,  and  circling  shore,  are  blended  there 

In  wild  reality.     When  life  is  old, 

And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold 

Its  memory  of  this  ;  nor  lives  there  one 

Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  boyhood's 
days 

Of  happiness  were  passed  beneath  that  sun, 
That  in  his  manhood's  prime  can  calmly  gaze 

Upon  that  bay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand, 

Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  land. 

FlTZ-GREENE  halleck. 


THE   PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

[Francois de  Bonnivard  was  born  1406,  and  was  educated  for  the 
church.  He  stood  forward  in  the  defence  of  Geneva  against  the 
Duke  of  Savoy  and  the  Bishop.  He  was  imprisoned  for  two  years 
(1519-21)  at  Grolee,  and  again  at  the  Chateau  of  Chillon,  1530-36. 
He  was  much  honored  by  his  townsmen,  the  Genevese,  and  died 
in  1570.     Tile  castle  stands  on  the  margin  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva.] 


My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears  : 
My  limbs  arc  bowed,  though  not  with  toil, 

lint  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  ••'  hoin  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  banned,  and  barred,     'forbidden  fare; 
Bu1  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
1  suffered  chains  and  courted  death  ; 
That  fal  her  perished  al  the  Btake 
For  tenet )  he  would  not  forsake  ; 


And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 

In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place  ; 

We  were  seven,  —  who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finished  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  ; 
One  in  tire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealed  ! 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

11. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old, 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray,  — 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left, 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp,  — 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain  ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  to  rise 
For  years,  —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

in. 

They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three,  yet  each  alone  ; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight  ; 
Ami  thus  together,  yet  apart, 
Fettered  in  hand,  but  pined  in  heart; 
'T  was  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 

With  .some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 

Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 

A  grating  sound,  — not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  ; 
It  might  !»•  fancy,  — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 


fa- 


tf 


-ta 


552 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


IV. 


t 


1  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 

Ami  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 

1  ought  to  do  — and  did  —  my  best, 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven,  — 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved  ; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 

As  to  young  eagles,  being  free),  — 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer  's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun  ; 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  naught  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  lie  eould  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below. 

V. 
Tiie  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind  ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  ;  — but  not  in  chains  to  pine  ; 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline,  — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine  ; 
Put  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf  ; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf 
And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

VI. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls  : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  ('billon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthralls  ; 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made,  — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day  ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knocked  ; 
And  1  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky  ; 


And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked, 
And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshoeked, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 


VII. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food  ; 
It  was  not  that  't  was  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care  ; 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat. 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moistened  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den  ; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  ; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side  ; 
But  why  delay  the  truth  ?  —  he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand,  —  nor  dead,  — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died,  —  and  they  unlocked  his  chain, 
And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begged  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine,  —  it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer,  — 
They  coldly  laughed,  and  laid  him  there. 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love  ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument  ! 

VIII. 

But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 
Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour, 
His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 
The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 
His  martyred  father's  dearest  thought, 
My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free  ; 
He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspired,  — 
Fie,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 
Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away. 
0  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 


~ff 


rB- 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


553 


& 


To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 
In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  :  — 
I  've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 
I  've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 
Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 
I  've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bell 
Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread  : 
But  these  were  horrors,  —  this  was  woe 
Unmixed  with  such,  —  but  sure  and  slow  : 
He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 
So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 
So  tearless,  yet  so  tender,  —  kind, 
And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  ; 
With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 
Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 
Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 
As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray,  — 
An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 
That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 
And  not  a  word  of  murmur,  — not 
A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot,  — 
A  little  talk  of  better  days, 
A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 
For  I  was  sunk  in  silence,  —  lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 
And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 
Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 
■  More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less  : 
1  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear, — 
I  railed,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear; 
I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 
Would  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 
1  i  ailed,  and  thought  1  heard  a  sound,  — 
1  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 
And  rushed  to  him  : —  I  found  him  not, 
J  only  stirred  in  this  black  spot, 
/  only  lived,  — 7  only  drew 
Tlie  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew  ; 
The  last  — the  sole —  the  dearest  link 
Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 
Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 
Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 
One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath,  — 
My  brothers  —  both  had  ceased  to  breathe. 
I  took  that  hand  which  lav  so  still, 
Ala  .  !  my  ou  n  was  lull  as  chill  ; 
1  hid  not  si  rength  to  stir  or  strive, 

Bui    felt    that    I    was  still  alive,— 

A  frantic  feeling  when  we  know 

That   what   We  love  shall   ne'er  lie  SO. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope,  —  but  faith, 

And   that    forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX. 
WTl  befell  me  then  and  there 

I  know  nol  well,       1  never  knew. 


First  came  the  loss  of  light  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too  ; 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling,  —  none,  — 
Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist  ; 
For  all  was  blank  and  bleak  and  gray, 
It  was  not  night,  ■ —  it  was  not  day, 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 
But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 
And  fixedness,  —  without  a  place  : 
There  were  no  stars  —  no  earth  —  no  time — 
No  check  —  no  change  —  no  good  —  no  crime 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death  : 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless  ! 


A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain,  — ■ 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery  ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perched,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree  ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me  ! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I   ne'er  shall  see  its  Likeness  more. 

It  seemed,  like  me,  to  want  a  mate, 

But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 

None  lived  to  love  so  again, 

And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 

I  know  not    if  it    late  were  flee, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity. 

Sweet  bird  !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine  ! 
( >r  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 

A  \  i-itant  f Paradise  : 

|<\n         Heaven  torsive  that  thought!  the  while 

Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile  — 
1  sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me; 


<& 


— # 


554 


DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


a 


But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  't  was  mortal,  • —  well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone,  — 
Lolie  —  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Loue  —  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate  ; 

I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 

But  so  it  was  :  —  my  broken  chain 

With  links  unfastened  did  remain, 

And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 

Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 

And  tread  it  over  every  part  ; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 

Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 

Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 

My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 

For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 

My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 

And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XII. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 
It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 

For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape  : 

And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 

A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 

No  child,  — no  sire,  — no  kin  had  I, 

No  partner  in  my  misery  ; 

I  thought  of  this  and  I  was  glad, 

For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad  ; 

But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 

To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 

Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high, 

The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

XIII. 

I  saw  them,  —  and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame ; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high,  —  their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow  ; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gusli 
O'er  channelled  rock  and  broken  bush ; 


I  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down  ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  sndle, 

The  only  one  in  viewr ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flow    g, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seemed  joyous  each  and  all  ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly, 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled,  —  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load  ; 
It  was  as  in  a  new-dug  grave 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  oppressed, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 


XIV. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count,  —  I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote  ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  asked  not  why  and  recked  not  where, 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learned  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appeared  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage,  and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home  ; 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill,  —  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell,  — 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  :  —  even  I 
Regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


BYRON. 


ta- 


-s1 


r& 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


555 


LAMBRO'S   RETURN. 

FROM    "DON   JUAN  " 

Lambro,  our  sea-solicitor,  who  had 

Much  less  experience  of  dry  land  than  ocean, 

On  seeing  his  own  chimney-smoke,  felt  glad  ; 
But,  not  knowing  metaphysics,  had  no  notion 

Of  the  true  reason  of  his  not  being  sad, 
Or  that  of  any  other  strong  emotion  ; 

He  loved  his  child,  and  would  have  wept  the  loss 
of  her, 

But  knew  the  cause  no  more  than  a  philosopher. 

He  saw  his  white  walls  shining  in  the  sun, 
His  garden  trees  all  shadowy  and  green  ; 

He  heard  his  rivulet's  light  bubbling  run, 

Tli.:  distant  dog-bark  ;  and  perceived,  between 

The  umbrage  of  the  wood,  so  cool  and  dun, 
The  moving  figures,  and  the  sparkling  sheen 

Of  arms  (in  the  East  all  arm), —  and  various  dyes 

Of  colored  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 

And  as  the  spot  where  they  appear  he  nears, 
Surprised  at  these  unwonted  signs  of  idling, 

He  hears  —  alas  !  no  music  of  the  spheres, 
But  an  unhallowed  earthly  sound  of  fiddling  ! 

A  melody  which  made  him  doubt  his  ears, 

The  cause  being  past  his  guessing  or  unriddling ; 

A  pipe,  too,  and  a  drum,  and,  shortly  after, 

A  most  unoriental  roar  of  laughter. 

Old  Lambro  passed  unseen  a  private  gate, 
And  stood  within  his  hall  at  eventide  ; 

Meantime  the  lady  and  her  lover  sate 

At  wassail  in  their  beauty  and  their  pride : 

An  ivory  inlaid  table  spread  with  state 

Before  them,  and  fair  slaves  on  every  side  ; 

Gems,  gold,  and  silver  formed  the  service  mostly, 

Mother-of-pearl  and  coral  the  less  costly. 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 

On  crimson  satin,  bordered  with  pale  blue  ; 

Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 

Of  the  apartment,  —  and  appeared  quite  new  ; 

The  velvet  cushions  (for  a  throne  more  meet) 
Were  s  :arlet,  from  whose  glowing  centre  grew 

A  sun  embossed  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 

Meridian-like,  were  .seen  all  light  to  issue. 

Of  all  the  dresses  1  select  Haidee'a; 

She  wore  two  jellicks,  —  one  was  of  pale  yellow  ; 
Of  azure,  pink,  and  white  washer  chemise,  — 
'Neat  h  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a  little  bil- 
low ; 
With  buttons  formed  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas, 

All  gold  and  crimson  Bhone  herjellick's  fellow  ; 
And  the  striped  white  gauze  baracan  that  bound 

her, 
Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon,  flowed  round 
her. 


One  large  gold  bracelet  clasped  each  lovely  arm, 
Lockless,  —  so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 

That  the  hand  stretched  and  shut  it  without  harm. 
The  limb  which  it  adorned  its  only  mould  ; 

So  beautiful,  —  its  very  shape  would  charm, 
And  clinging  as  if  loath  to  lose  its  hold, 

The  purest  ore  enclosed  the  whitest  skin 
J  That  e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in. 

J  Around,  as  princess  of  her  father's  land, 
A  like  gold  bar,  above  her  instep  rolled, 
Announced  her  rank  ;  twelve  rings  were  on  her 
hand  ; 
Her  hair  was  starred  with  gems  ;  her  veil's  fine 
fold 
Below  her  breast  was  fastened  with  a  band 

Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce  be  told ; 
Her  orange-silk  full  Turkish  trousers  furled 
Above  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world, 

Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life, 
The  very  air  seemed  lighter  from  her  eyes, 

They  were  so  soft  and  beautiful,  and  rife . 
With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies. 

And  pure  as  Psyche  ere  she  grew  a  wife,  — 
Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties  , 

Her  overpowering  presence  made  you  feel 

It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

•  •  •  i  a 

Juan  had  on  a  shawl  of  black  and  gold, 
But  a  white  baracan,  and  so  transparent, 

The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold, 
Like  small  stars  through  the  Milky  Way  ap- 
parent ; 

His  turban,  furled  in  many  a  graceful  fold, 
An  emerald  aigrette,  with  Haidee's  hair  in't 

Surmounted  ;  at  its  clasp  a  glowing  crescent, 

Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  but  incessant 

They  were  alone  once  more  ;  for  them  to  be 
Thus  was  another  Eden  :  they  were  never 

Weary,  unless  when  separate  :  the  tree 
Cut  from  its  forest  root  of  years,  the  river 

Dammed  from  its  fountain,  the  child  from  the  knee 
And  breast  maternal  weaned  at  once  forever, 

Would  wither  less  than  these  two  torn  apart ; 

Alas  !  there  is  no  instinct  like  the  heart. 

They  gazed  upon  the  sunset ;  't  is  an  hour 
Dear  unto  nil,  but  dearest  to  their  eyes, 

For  it  had  made  them  what  they  were  :  the  powei 
Of  love  had  first  o'erwhelmed  them  from  such 

skies, 

When  happiness  had  been  their  only  dower, 

And  twilight  saw  them  linked  in  passion's  ties; 
Charmed  with  each  other,  all  things  charmed  that 

brought 
The  past  still  welcome  as  the  present  thought. 


[S~ 


~& 


a 


556 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


Now  pillowed  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving  sleep, 
Haidee  and  Juan  their  siesta  took,  — 

A  gentle  slumber,  but  it  was  not  deep, 
For  ever  and  anon  a  something  shook 

Juan,  and  shuddering  o'er  his  frame  would  creep  ; 
And  Haidee's  sweet  lips  murmured  like  a  brook, 

A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 

Stirred  with  her  dream,  as  rose-leaves  with  the  air. 

She  dreamed  of  being  alone  on  the  sea-shore 
Chained  to  a  rock  :  she  knew  not  how,  but  stir 

She  could  not  from  the  spot,  and  the  loud  roar 
Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threatening 
her  ; 

And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seemed  to  pour 
Until  she  sobbed  for  breath,  and  soon  they  were 

Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and  high, — 

Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not  die. 

•  ■  •  •  • 

And  wet  and  cold  and  lifeless  at  her  feet, 

Pale  as  the  foam  that  frothed  on  his  dead  brow, 

Which  she  essayed  in  vain  to  clear,  (how  sweet 
Were  once  her  cares,  how  idle  seemed  they  now  !) 

Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  beat 
Of  his  quenched  heart ;  and  the  sea-dirges  low 

Rang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a  mermaid's  song, 

And  that  brief  dream  appeared  a  life  too  long. 

And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his  face 
Faded,  or  altered  into  something  new,  — 

Like  to  her  father's  features,  till  each  trace 
More  like  and  like  to  Lambro's  aspect  grew,  — 

With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian  grace  ; 
And,  starting,  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view  ? 

0  powers  of  heaven  !  what  dark  eye  meets  she  there  ? 
T  is  —  't  is  her  father's — fixed  upon  the  pair ! 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell, 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  see 

Him  whom  she  deemed  a  habitant  where  dwell 
The  ocean -buried,  risen  from  death  to  be 

Perchance  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too  well : 
Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Haidee, 

It  was  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind,  — 

1  have  seen  such,  —  but  must  not  call  to  mind. 

Up  Juan  sprang  to  Haidee's  bitter  shriek, 
And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off  the  wall 

Snatched  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  haste  to  wreak 
Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of  all : 

Then  Lambro,  who  till  now  forbore  to  speak, 
Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  "  Within  my  call, 

A  thousand  scimitars  await  the  word  ; 

Put  up,  young  man,  put  up  your  silly  sword." 

And  Haidee  clung  around  him  :   "Juan,  'tis  — 
'T  is  Lambro, — 'tismy  father!  Kneel  with  me, — 

He  will  forgive  us, —yes, — it  must  be,  — yes. 
0  dearest  father,  in  this  agony 


Of  pleasure  and  of  pain,  — even  while  I  kiss 

Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can  it  be 
Tliat  doubt  should  mingle  with  my  filial  joy  ? 
Deal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  this  boy." 

High  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood, 
Calm  in  his  voice,  and  calm  within  his  eye,  — 

Not  always  signs  with  him  of  calmest  mood  : 
He  looked  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply  ; 

Then  turned  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  the  blood 
Oft  came  and  went,  ,as  there  resolved  to  die, 

In  arms,  at  least,  he  stood  in  act  to  spring 

On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro's  call  might  bring. 

"  Youngman,  your  sword"  ;  so  Lambro  once  more 
said : 

Juan  replied,  "Not  while  this  arm  is  free." 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with  dread, 

And  drawing  from  his  belt  a  pistol,  he 
Replied,  "Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own  head." 

Then  looked  close  at  the  flint,  as  if  to  see 
'T  was  fresh,  —  for  he  had  lately  used  the  lock,  — 
And  next  proceeded  quietly  to  cock. 

Lambro  presented,  and  one  instant  more 

Had  stopped  this  canto,  and  Don  Juan'sbreath, 

When  Haidee  threw  herself  her  boy  before  ; 
Stern asher sire :  "On me, "  she  cried, ' '  let  death 

Descend,  —  the  fault  is  mine  ;  this  fatal  shore 
He  found,  —  but  sought  not.     I  have  pledged 
my  faith  ; 

1  love  him,  —  I  will  die  with  him  :  I  knew 

Your  nature's  firmness,  —  know  your  daughter's 
too." 

A  minute  past,  and  she  had  been  all  tears 
And  tenderness  and  infancy  ;  but  now 

She  stood  as  one  who  championed  human  fears,  — 
Pale,  statue-like,  and  stern,  she  wooed  the  blow ; 

And  tall  beyond  her  sex,  and  their  compeers, 
She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 

A  fairer  mark  ;  and  with  a  fixed  eye,  scanned 

Her  father's  face,  — but  never  stopped  his  hand. 

The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 
His  weapon,  and  replaced  it ;  but  stood  still, 

And  looking  on  hei",  as  to  look  her  through  : 
"Not  /,"  he  said,  "have  sought  this  stranger's 

ill; 

Not  I  have  made  this  desolation  :  few 

Would  bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear  to  kill ; 
But  I  must  do  my  duty,  —  how  thou  hast 
Done  thine,  the  present  vouches  for  the  past. 

"  Let  him  disarm  ;  or,  by  my  father's  head, 
His  own  shall  roll  before  you  like  a  ball  !  " 

He  raised  his  whistle,  as  the  word  he  said, 
And  blew  ;  another  answered  to  the  call, 

And,  rushing  in  disorderly,  though  led, 

And  armed  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and  all, 


cla— 


~ff 


ts 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


557 


■a 


Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank  ; 
Hegavethe  word,  —  "Arrest,  or  slay,  the  Frank." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  withdrew 
His  daughter  ;    while  compressed  within  his 
clasp, 

"Twixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew ; 

In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father's  grasp,  — 

His  arms  were  like  a  serpent's  coil  :  then  flew 
Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp, 

The  file  of  pirates  ;  save  the  foremost,  who 

Had  fallen,  with   his   right   shoulder   half  cut 
through. 

The  second  had  his  cheek  laid  open  ;  but 
The  third,  a  wary,  cool,  old  sworder,  took 

The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 

His  own  well  in  :  so  well,  ere  you  could  look, 

His  man  was  floored,  and  helpless,  at  his  foot, 
With  the  blood  running,  like  a  little  brook, 

From  two  smart  sabre-gashes,  deep  and  red,  — 

One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 

And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell,  and  bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment :  with  a  sign, 

Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him  to  the  shore, 
Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  tosail  at  nine. 

They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 
Until  they  reached  some  galliots,  placed  in  line  ; 

On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under  hatches, 

They  stowed  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the  watches. 

The  last  sight  Haidee  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 
And  he  himself  o'ermastered  and  cut  down  : 

His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor, 
Where  kit"  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own  ; 

Thus  much  she  viewed  an  instant  and  no  more,  — 
Herstruggli  I  with  one  convulsive  groan; 

On  her  sire's  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 

Her,  writhing,  fell  she,  like  a  cedar  felled. 

A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran 
o'er  ; 

And  her  head  drooped,  as  when  the  lily  lies 
O'ercharged  with  rain  :  her  summoned  hand- 
maids bore 

Their  lady  t.,  her  conch,  with  gushing  eyes  ; 
<  >f  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store, 

But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 

Like  one  life  could  not  hold,  nor  death  destroy. 

Days  lay  she  in  thai  state,  unchanged,  though 
.■hill, 

With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red  ; 
She  had  no  pulse,  hut  death  seemed  ahsenl  still  ; 

No  hideous  sign  proclaimed  her  surely  dead  ; 
Corruption  came  not,  in  each  mind  to  kill 

All  hope  ;  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 


New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seemed  full  of  soul,  — 
She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole. 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake, 
Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seemed  somethingnew, 

A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 

Struck  not  her  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  wdiose  earliest  beat,  still  true, 

Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the  cause, 

For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

She  looked  on  many  a  face  with  vacant  eye, 
Ou  many  a  token  without  knowing  what ; 

She  saw  them  watch  her  without  asking  why  ; 
And  recked  not  who  around  her  pillow  sat  ; 

Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not  ;  not  a  sigh 
Relieved  her  thoughts  ;  dull  silence  and  quick 
chat 

Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served ;  she  gave 

No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not  ; 

Her  father  watched,  she  turned  her  eyes  away  ; 
She  recognized  no  being,  and  no  spot, 

However  dear,  or  cherished  in  their  day  ; 
They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all  forgot, 

Gentle,  but  without  memory,  she  lay  ; 
At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain  be 

weaning 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  waxed  full  of  fearful  mean- 


Ami  then  a  slave  bethought  her  of  a  harp  ; 

The  harper  came,  and  tuned  his  instrument ; 
At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp, 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes#a  moment  bent, 
Then  to  the  wall  she  turned,  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow,  through  her  heart 
re-sent ; 
And  he  began  a  long  low  island-song 
Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall, 

In  time  to  his  old  tune  ;  he  changed  the  theme, 

And  sung  of  love  ;  the  fierce  name  struck  thiough 
all 
Her  recollection  ;  on  her  flashed  the  dream 

Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 
To  be  so  being  ;  in  a  gushing  stream 

The  tears  rushed  forth  from  her  o'erelouded  brain, 

Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

Short  solace,  vain  relief! — thought  came  too 
(puck, 

And  whirled  her  brain  to  madness  ;  she  arose, 
As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwelt  among  the  sick, 

And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes  ; 


<&- 


-ff 


558 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


ft 


But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek, 
Although    her    paroxysm   drew   towards    its 
close  ;  — 
Hers  was  a  frenzy  which  disdained  to  rave, 
Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to  save. 

Yet  she  betrayed  at  times  a  gleam  of  sense  ; 

Nothing  could  make  her  meet  her  father's  face, 
Though  on  all  other  things  with  looks  intense 

She  gazed,  but  none  she  ever  could  retrace  ; 
Food  she  refused,  and  raiment  ;  no  pretence 

Availed  for  either  ;  neither  change  of  place, 
Nor  time,  nor  skill,  nor  remedy,  could  give  her 
Senses  to  sleep,  —  the  power  seemed  gone  forever. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  withered  thus ;  at  last, 
"Without  a  groan  or  sigh  or  glance  to  show 

A  parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  past ; 

And  they  who  watched  her  nearest  could  not 
know 

The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 
Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and  slow, 

Glazed  o'er  her  eyes,  — the  beautiful,  the  black, — 

0,  to  possess  such  lustre,  —  and  then  lack  ! 

She  died,  but  not  alone  ;  she  held  within 
A  second  principle  of  life,  which  might 

Have  dawned  a  fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin  ; 
But  closed  its  little  being  without  light, 

And  went  down  to  the  grave  unborn,  wherein 
Blossom   and  bough  lie  withered  with   one 
blight  ; 

In  vain  the  dews  of  heaven  descend  above 

The  bleeding  flower  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 

Thus  lived,  thus  died  she  ;  nevermore  on  her, 
Shall  sorrow  light,  or  shame.    She  was  not  made 

Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to  bear, 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are  laid 

By  age  in  earth  ;  her  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful,  —  such  as  had  not  stayed 

Long  with  her  destiny  ;  but  she  sleeps  well 

By  the  sea-shore,  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell. 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 

Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  passed  away  ; 

None  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is  there, 
And  nothing  outward  tells  of  human  clay  ; 

Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair, 
No  stone  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say, 

"What  was  ;  no  dirge,  except  the  hollow  sea's, 

Mourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 

BYRON. 


CLEOPATRA. 

FROM    "  ANTONY    AND  CLEOPATRA." 

Exobarbus.  The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  bur- 
nished throne, 
Burned  on  the  water  :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold  ; 


Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed,  that 

The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them  ;  the  oars 

were  silver ; 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 
The  water,  which  they  beat,  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.     For  her  own  person, 
It  beggared  all  description  :  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion  (cloth  of  gold  of  tissue), 
O'erpicturing  that  Venus,  where  we  see, 
The  fancy  out-work  nature  ;  on  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  divers-colored  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 
And  what  they  undid,  did. 

Agrippa.  0,  rare  for  Antony  ! 

Exo.   Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereids, 
So  many  mermaids,  tende    d  her  i'  the  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  adornings  :  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers  :  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands, 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her  ;  and  Antony, 
Enthroned  i'  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
Whistling  to  the  air  ;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too, 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Agr.  Rare  Egyptian  ! 

Exo.  Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her, 
Invited  her  to  supper  :  she  replied, 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest  ; 
Which  she  entreated  :  our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  "No"  woman  heard 

speak, 
Being  barbered  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast ; 
And,  for  his  ordinary,  pays  his  heart 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agr.  Royal  wench  ! 

Mecexas.  Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly. 

Exo.  Never  ;  he  will  not : 
Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety  :  other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed,  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies  :  for  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her  ;  that  the  holy  priests 
Bless  her  when  she  is  riggish. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


GODIVA. 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past ;  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the  people  well, 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtaxed  ;  but  she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame, 


t± 


& 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


559       I 


The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 

Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl  who  ruled 

In  Coventry  :  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 

Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers  brought 

Their    children,    clamoring,    "If    we    pay,    we 

starve  ! " 
She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him,  where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his  hair 
A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their  tears, 
And  prayed  him,    "If  they  pay  this  tax,  they 

starve." 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half  amazed, 
"  You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 
For  such  as  these  ?"  —  "  But  I  would  die,"  said 

she. 
He  laughed,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul : 
Then  filliped  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear  ; 
"  0,  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  !  "  —  "  Alas  !  "  she  said, 
"  But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do." 
And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand, 
He  answered,  "  Ride  you  naked  through  the  town, 
And  I  repeal  it"  ;  and  nodding,  as  in  scorn, 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his  dogs. 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition  ;  but  that  she  would  loose 
The  people  :  therefore,  as  they  loved  her  well, 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing  ;  but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut  and  window  barred. 
Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasped  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The  grim  Earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  lingered,  looking  like  a  summer  moon 
Half  dipt  in  cloud  :  anon  she  shook  her  head, 
And  showered  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee  ; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste  ;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on  ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reached 
The  gateway  :  there  she  found  her  palfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazoned  with  armorial  gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity  : 
The  deep  air  listened  round  her  as  she  rode, 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouthed  heads  upon  the  Bpout 
Had  cunning  eye  to  sec  j  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame  :  her  palfrey's  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors   through   her   pulses:   the   blind 

walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes  ;  and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared:  but  she 
Not  less  through  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flowered  elder-thicket  from  the  field 
Gleam  through  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 


Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chastity  : 

And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth, 

The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 

Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 

Peeped  —  but  his  eyes,  before   they  had   their 

will, 

Were  shrivelled  into  darkness  in  his  head, 

And  dropt  before  him.   So  the  Powers,  who  wait 

On  noble  deeds,  cancelled  a  sense  misused  ; 

And  she,  that  knew  not,  passed  :  and  all  at  once, 

With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the  shameless 

noon 

Was  clashed  and  hammered  from  a  hundred  towers, 

One  after  one  :  but  even  then  she  gained 

Her  bower;  whence  re-issuing,  robed  and  crowned, 

To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away, 

And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  CANTERBURY   PILGRIMS. 

There  also  was  a  Nun,  a  Prioress, 
That  in  her  smiling  was  full  simple  and  coy  ; 
Her  greatest  oath  was  but  by  Saint  Eloy  ; 
And  she  was  cleped  Madame  Eglantine. 
Full  well  she  sang  the  service  divine, 
Entuned  in  her  nose  full  sweetly  ; 
And  French  she  spake  full  faire  and  fetisly, 
After  the  school  of  Stratford  at  Bow, 
For  French  of  Paris  was  to  her  unknowe. 
At  meat  was  she  well  ytaught  withall ; 
She  let  no  morsel  from  her  lips  fall, 
Nor  wet  her  fingers  in  her  sauce  deep  ; 
Well  could  she  carry  a  morsel,  and  well  keep, 
That  no  drop  neer  fell  upon  her  breast. 
In  courtesie  was  set  full  much  her  lest. 

•  •  •  •  • 

And  certainly  she  was  of  great  disport, 
And  full  pleasant,  and  amiable  of  port, 

And  took  much  pains  to  imitate  the  air 
Of  court,  and  hold  a  stately  manner, 
And  to  be  thoughten  high  of  reverence. 
But  for  to  speaken  of  her  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  piteous, 
She  would  weep  if  that  she  saw  a  mouse 
Caught  in  a  trap,  if  it  were  dead  or  bled  ; 
Two  small  hounds  had  she  that  she  fed 
With  roasted  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wasted  bread, 
But  sore  she  wept  if  one  of  them  were  dead, 
Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  staff  smarte  : 
She  was  all  conscience  and  tender  heart. 
Full  seemely  her  wimple  pinched  was  ; 
Her    nose    was    strait;    her   eyes  were   grey  as 

glass  , 
Her  mouth  full  small,  and  thereto  soft  and  red  ; 
But  certainly  she  had  a  fair  forehead. 


<&- 


-e1 


560 


DESCRIPTIVE   POEMS. 


t& 


It  was  almost  a  span  broad  I  trow, 
For  certainly  she  was  not  undergrowne. 

Full  handsome  was  her  cloak,  as  I  was  'ware 
Of  small  coral  about  her  arm  she  bare 
A  pair  of  beads,  gauded  all  with  green  ; 
And  thereon  hung  a  broach  of  gold  full  shene, 
On  which  was  first  ywritten  a  crowned  A, 
And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

Another  Nun  also  with  her  had  she 
That  was  her  chaplain,  and  of  Priests  three. 

A  good  man  there  was  of  religion, 
That  was  a  poor  Parsoxe  of  a  town  ; 
But  rifth  he  was  in  holy  thought  and  work, 
He  was  also  a  learned  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Christ's  gospel  truely  would  preach. 
His  parishens  devoutly  would  he  teach, 
Benigne  he  was  and  wondrous  diligent, 
And  in  adversity  full  patient : 
And  such  he  was  yproved  often  times  ; 
Full  loth  were  he  to  cursen  for  his  tithes, 
But  rather  would  he  given,  out  of  doubt, 
Unto  his  poor  parishioners  about, 
Of  his  offering,  and  eke  of  his  substance  ; 
He  could  in  little  thing  have  suffisance. 
Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  far  asunder, 
But  he  nor  felt  nor  thought  of  rain  or  thunder, 
In  sickness  and  in  mischief  to  visit 
The  farthest  in  his  parish,  much  and  oft, 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staff. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  gave. 
That  first  he  wrought,  and  afterward  he  taught, 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  words  caught, 
And  this  figure  he  added  yet  thereto, 
That  if  gold  rust,  what  should  iron  do  ? 
And  if  a  priest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  trust, 
No  wonder  if  a  common  man  do  rust ; 
Well  ought  a  priest  ensample  for  to  give, 
By  his  cleanness,  how  his  sheep  should  live. 

He  set  not  his  benefice  to  hire, 
Or  left  his  sheep  bewildered  in  the  mire, 
And  ran  unto  London,  unto  Saint  Paul's, 
To  seeken  him  a  chanterie  for  souls, 
Or  with  a  brotherhood  to  be  withold  : 
But  dwelt  at  home,  and  kept  well  his  fold, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  miscarry. 
He  was  a  shepherd  and  no  mercenarie, 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  virtuous, 
He  was  to  sinful  men  not  dispiteous, 
Nor  of  his  speech  dangerous  nor  high, 
Put  in  his  teaching  discrete  and  benigne. 
To  draw  his  folk  to  heaven,  with  fairness, 
By  good  ensample,  was  his  business  : 
But  if  were  any  person  obstinate, 
Whether  he  were  of  high  or  low  estate, 
Him  would  he  reprove  sharply  for  the  nones, 
A  better  priest  I  trow  that  nowhere  is. 
He  waited  after  neither  pomp  ne  reverence, 


Nor  maked  him  no  spiced  conscience, 

But  Christ's  lore  and  his  Apostles  twelve 

He  taught,  but  first  he  followed  it  himselve. 

Chaucer. 


THE  VICAR. 

Some  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste 

Had  turned  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  park  was  Darnel  waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 

St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket 
Was  always  shown  across  the  green, 

And  guided  to  the  parson's  wicket. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath  ; 

Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-clipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle  , 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlor  steps  collected, 
Wagged  all  their  tails,  and  seemed  to  say, 

"  Our  master  knows  you  ;  you  're  expected.'' 

Up  rose  the  reverend  Doctor  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  doctor's  "  winsome  marrow"  ; 
The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasped  his  ponderous  Barrow. 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed, 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end, 

And  warmed  himself  in  court  or  college, 
He  had  not  gained  an  honest  friend, 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge  ; 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  vicarage  or  the  vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses  ; 
It  slipped  from  politics  to  puns  ; 

It  passed  from  Mahomet  to  Moses  ; 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine, 

Of  loud  dissent  the  mortal  terror  ; 
And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 

He  'stablished  truth  or  startled  error, 
The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep, 

The  Deist  sighed  with  saving  sorrow, 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep 

And  dreamt  of  eating  pork  to-morrow. 


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4 


His  serrnon  never  said  or  showed 

That  earth  is  fotd,  that  heaven  is  gracious, 
"Without  refreshment  on  the  road, 

From  Jerome  or  from  Athanasius  ; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  head  that  penned  and  planned 
them, 
For  all  who  understood  admired, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses, 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses ; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost ; 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban  ; 
And  trifles  for  the  "Morning  Post"  ; 

And  nothings  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking  ; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking ; 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnished  cottage, 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage. 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 

Ami  when  his  hand  unbarred  the  shutter 
The  clammy  lips  of  fever  smiled 

The  welcome  that  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Cresar  or  of  Venus  ; 
From  him  I  learned  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's-cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Qnce  genua. 
I  used  to  sin^e  his  powdered  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in, 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustine. 

Alack,  the  change  !     In  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled  ; 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled! 
The  church  i  than  before, 

Yon  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry  ; 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more, 

And  pews  are  fitted  for  the  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  vicar's  seat  ;  you'll  hear 

Tlic  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 
Win i,i-  hand  is  white,  whose  voice  is  clear, 

"Whose  tone  is  very  Ciceronian. 


"Where  is  the  old  man  laid  ?     Look  down 
And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you,  — 

"  Hie  jacet  Gulielmus  Broion, 
Vir  nulld  non  donandus  lauro" 

WlNTHROF   MACKWORTH  PRAEDl 

— ♦— — 


FORTUNE-TELLER. 

FROM    "THE    COMEDY   OF  ERRORS." 

A  hungry  lean-faced  villain, 
A  mere  anatomy,  a  mountebank, 
A  thread-bare  juggler,  and  a  fortune-teller, 
A  needy,  hollow-eyed,  sharp-looking  wretch, 
A  living  dead  man.     This  pernicious  slave, 
Forsooth,  took  on  him  as  a  conjurer  ; 
And,  gazing  in  mine  eyes,  feeling  my  pulse, 
And  with  no  face,  as  't  were,  outfacing  me, 
Cries  out,  I  was  possessed.- 

SHAKESPEARE 


SWAGGER. 

FROM   "  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE  " 

I  'll  hold  thee  any  waget, 

"When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 

I  '11  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 

And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  bravei  grace  ; 

And  speak  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 

With  a  reed  voice  ;  and  turn  two  mincing  ste]>s 

Into  a  manly  stride  ;  and  speak  of  frays, 

Like  a  fine  bragging  youth  ;  and  tell  quaint  lies, 

How  honorable  ladies  sought  my  love, 

Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died,  — 

I  could  not  do  withal  ;  —  then  I  '11  repent, 

And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  killed  them  . 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I  '11  tell ; 

That  men  shall  swear  I  have  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth  :  I  have  within  my  mind 

A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks, 

Which  1  will  practise. 

Shakespeare. 


THE  TOILET. 

FROM    "  THE   RAPE  OF  THE   LOCK  " 

AND  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  displayed, 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores, 
Witli  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears, 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears  ; 
The  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  .side 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear  j 


W 


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DESCRIPTIVE  POEMS. 


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From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Tran  sl'on  m-d  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the  white. 

Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  bibles,  billets-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms  ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face  ; 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care, 
These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair, 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait  the  gown ; 
And  Betty  's  praised  for  labors  not  her  own. 

J  ALEXANDER  POPE. 


A  RECEIPT  FOR  SALAD. 

To  make  this  condiment  your  poet  begs 
The  pounded  yellow  of  two  hard-boiled  eggs  ; 
Two  boiled  potatoes,  passed  through  kitchen  sieve, 
Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give  ; 
Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl, 
And,  half  suspected,  animate  the  whole  ; 
Of  mordent  mustard  add  a  single  spoon, 
Distrust  the.condiment  that  bites  so  soon  ; 
But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault 
To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt ; 
Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  from  Lucca  crown, 
And  twice  with  vinegar,  procured  from  town  ; 
And  lastly,  o'er  the  flavored  compound  toss 
A  magic  soupcon  of  anchovy  sauce. 
0  green  and  glorious  !     0  herbaceous  treat ! 
'T  would  tempt  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat ; 
Back  to  the  world  he  'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 
And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad-bowl ; 


Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 

"  Fate  cannot  harm  me,  —  I  have  dined  to-day.' 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


THE  PEDLER'S   PACK. 

FROM      "THE     WINTER'S     TALE." 

Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 

Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow  ; 
Cyprus  black  as  e'er  was  crow  ; 
Gloves  as  sweet  as  damask  roses  ; 
Masks  for  faces  and  for  noses  ; 
Bugle  bracelet,  necklace-amber , 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber : 
Golden  quoifs  and  stomachers, 
For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears  ; 
Pins  and  poking-sticks  of  steel, 
What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel : 
Come  buy  of  me,  come ;  come  buy,  come  buy ; 
Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry  : 
Come  buy. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


-♦ 


METRICAL  FEET. 

Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short ; 

From  long  to  long  in  solemn  sort 

Slow  Spondee  stalks  ;  strong  foot !  yet  ill  able 

Ever  to  come  up  with  Dactyl  trisyllable. 

Iambics  march  from  short  to  long  ;  — 

With  a  leap  and  a  bound  the  swift  Anapaests 

throng  ; 
One  syllable  long,  with  one  short  at  each  side, 
Amphibrachys  hastes  with  a  stately  stride  ;  —  ^ 
First  and  last  being  long,  middle  short,  Amphi- 

macer 
Strikes  his  thundering  hoofs  like  a  proud  high- 
bred racer. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


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POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  NOBLE  NATURE. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be  ; 

Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 

To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear  :, 

A  lily  of  a  day 

Is  fairer  far  in  Slay, 

Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night,  — 

It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 

In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see  ; 

And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

Ben  Jonson. 


MY  MINDE  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM   IS. 

My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is  i 
Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  linde 

As  farre  exceeds  all  earthly  blisse 
That  God  or  nature  hath  assignde  ; 

Though  much  I  want  that  most  would  have, 

Yet  still  my  minde  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live ;  this  is  my  stay,  — 
I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

I  presse  to  beare  no  haughtie  sway  ; 
Look,  what  1  lack  my  mind  supplies. 

Loe,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 

Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

I  see  how  plentie  surfets  oft, 
And  hastie  clymbers  soonest  fall; 

I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 

These  gel  with  toile,  ami  keepe  with  feare  ; 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  beare. 

No  princely  pompe  nor  welthie  store, 

No  force  to  win  (lie  victorie, 
No  wylie  wit  to  salve  a  »>\<\ 

No  shape  to  winne  a  lover's  eye,  — 
To  none  of  these  I  yceld  as  t  hrall  ; 
For  why,  my  mind  despisetli  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yel  still  they  crave  ; 
I  little  have,  yel  seek  no  more. 


They  are  but  poore,  though  much  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  poor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give  ; 
They  lacke,  I  lend  ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  losse, 
I  grudge  not  at  another's  gaine  ; 

No  worldly  wave  my  mind  can  tosse  ; 
I  brooke  that  is  another's  bane. 

I  feare  no  foe,  nor  fawne  on  friend  ; 

I  lothe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  blisse  ; 

I  weigh  not  Cresus'  wealth  a  straw  ; 
For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is  ; 

I  feare  not  fortune's  fatal  law  ; 
My  mind  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beautie  bright,  or  force  of  love. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will  ; 

I  wander  not  to  seeke  for  more  ; 
I  like  the  plaine,  I  clime  no  hill ; 

In  greatest  stormes  I  sitte  on  shore, 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toile  in  vaine 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  againe. 

I  kisse  not  where  I  wish  to  kill  ; 

I  feigne  not  love  where  most  I  hate  ; 
I  breake  no  sleepe  to  winne  my  will ; 

I  wayte  not  at  the  mightie's  gate. 
I  scorne  no  poore,  I  feare  no  rich  ; 
I  feele  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  ne  cart  I  like  ne  loath,  — 
Extreames  are  counted  worst  of  all  ; 

The  golden  nieane  betwixt  them  both 
Doth  surest  sit,  and  leans  no  tall  ; 

Tins  is  my  choyce  ;  for  why,  I  linde 

\o  wealth  is  like  a  quiet  minde. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease; 

My  conscience  clere  my  chiefe  defence; 
I  never  seeke  by  bribes  to  please, 

Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 

Thus  do  I   live,   thus  will  I  die  ; 

Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  1  ! 

William  Hvrd. 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


BEAUTY. 

'T  is  much  immortal  beauty  to  admire, 
But  more  immortal  beauty  to  withstand  ; 
The  perfect  soul  can  overcome  desire, 
If  beauty  with  divine  delight  be  scanned. 
For  what  is  beauty  but  the  blooming  child 
Of  fair  Olympus,  that  in  night  must  end, 
And  be  forever  from  that  bliss  exiled, 
If  admiration  stand  too  much  its  friend  ? 
The  wind  may  be  enamored  of  a  flower, 
The  ocean  of  the  green  and  laughing  shore, 
The  silver  lightning  of  a  lofty  tower,  — 
But  must  not  with  too  near  a  love  adore  ; 
Or  flower  and  margin  and  cloud-capped  tower 
TiOve  and  delight  shall  with  delight  devour  ! 

LORD  THURLOW. 


THOUGHT. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought ; 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

"We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils  ; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen  ; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known ; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet ; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie  ; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream  ? 
"What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught. 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
And  by  inspiration  led 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH. 


PRELUDE   TO   THE   VOICES   OF   THE 
NIGHT. 

Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 
And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 

To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 

Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 

Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go  ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 

No  sunlight  from  above, 
But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 
Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 

The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 

I  lay  upon  the  ground  ; 
His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he, 
And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee, 

With  one  continuous  sound  ;  — 

A  slumberous  sound,  a  sound  that  brings 

The  feelings  of  a  dream, 
As  of  innumerable  wings, 
As,  when  a  bell  no  longer  swings, 
Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 

O'er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 

Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 
As  lapped  in  thought  I  used  to  lie, 
And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 
Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by, 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea  ; 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 

Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled  ; 
Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page, 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 
Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 

Even  in  the  city's  throng 

I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams 

That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams, 

Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  INNER  VISION. 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 
To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  there  be  or  none, 
While  a  fair  region  round  the  Traveller  lies 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon  ; 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


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507 


Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 
The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 
Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 
The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 
Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse  : 
With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way,  — 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse,  — 
The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  POET'S  EEWAED. 

FROM    "  SNOW-BOUND." 

Thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond  ; 
The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


IMAGINATION. 

FROM    "MIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S   DREAM." 

THESEUS.  More  strange  than  true  :  I  never  may 
believe 
These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains, 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact : 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold,  — 
That  is,  the  madman  ;  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt  ; 
The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 

heaven  ; 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


CONTENTMENT. 

I  weigh  not  fortune's  frown  or  smile  ; 
1  joy  not  much  in  earthly  joys ; 

:       I.  nol  state,  1  reck  not  style  ; 
;  .'mi  not  fond  of  fancy's  toys  : 


I  rest  so  pleased  with  what  I  have 
I  wish  no  more,  no  more  I  crave. 

I  quake  not  at  the  thunder's  crack  ; 

I  tremble  not  at  news  of  war  ; 
I  swound  not  at  the  news  of  wrack  ; 

I  shrink  not  at  a  blazing  star ; 
I  fear  not  loss,  I  hope  not  gain, 
I  envy  none,  I  none  disdain. 

I  see  ambition  never  pleased  ; 

I  see  some  Tantals  starved  in  store ; 
I  see  gold's  dropsy  seldom  eased  ; 

I  see  even  Midas  gape  for  more  ; 
I  neither  want  nor  yet  abound,  — 
Enough  's  a  feast,  content  is  crowned. 

I  feign  not  friendship  where  I  hate  ; 

I  fawn  not  on  the  great  (in  show) ; 
I  prize,  I  praise  a  mean  estate,  — 

Neither  too  lofty  nor  too  low  : 
This,  this  is  all  my  choice,  my  cheer,  — 
A  mind  content,  a  conscience  clear. 

JOSHUA  SYLVESTER. 


THE  WANTS   OF  MAN. 

"Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
'T  is  not  with  me  exactly  so  ; 

But  't  is  so  in  the  song. 
My  wants  are  many  and,  if  told, 

Would  muster  many  a  score  ; 
And 'were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 

I  still  should  long  for  more. 

What  first  I  want  is  daily  bread  — 

And  canvas-backs  —  and  wine  — 
And  all  the  realms  of  nature  spread 

Before  me,  when  I  dine. 
Four  courses  scarcely  can  provide 

My  appetite  to  quell  ; 
With  four  choice  cooks  from  France  beside, 

To  dress  my  dinner  well. 

What  next  I  want,  at  princely  cost, 

Is  elegant  attire  : 
Black  sable  furs  for  winter's  frost, 

And  silks  for  summer's  lire, 
And  Cashmere  shawls,  and  Brussels  lace 

My  bosom's  front  to  deck,  — 
And  diamond  rings  my  hands  to  grace, 

And  rubies  for  my  neck. 

I  want  (who  dues  nut  want?)  a  wife, — 

Affectionate  and  lair ; 
To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life, 

And  all  its  joys  to  share. 


# 


& 


56S 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


Of  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will, 

Of  firm,  yet  placid  mind,  — 
With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still 

With  sentiment  refined. 

And  as  Time's  car  incessant  runs, 

And  Fortune  fills  my  store, 
I  want  of  daughters  and  of  sons 

From  eight  to  half  a  score. 
I  want  (alas  !  can  mortal  dare 

Such  bliss  on  earth  to  crave  ? ) 
That  all  the  girls  be  chaste  and  fair,  — 

The  boys  all  wise  and  brave. 

I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend, 

To  cheer  the  adverse  hour  ; 
Who  ne'er  to  flatter  will  descend, 

Nor  bend  the  knee  to  power,  — 
A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I  'm  wrong, 

My  inmost  soul  to  see  ; 
And  that  my  friendship  prove  as  strong 

For  him  as  his  for  me. 

1  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place, 

The  ensigns  of  command  ; 
Charged  by  the  People's  unbought  grace 

To  rule  my  native  land. 
Nor  crown  nor  sceptre  would  I  ask 

But  from  my  country's  will, 
By  day,  by  night,  to  ply  the  task 

Her  cup  of  bliss  to  fill. 

I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise 

To  follow  me  behind, 
And  to  be  thought  in  future  days 

The  friend  of  human-kind, 
That  after  ages,  as  they  rise, 

Exulting  may  proclaim 
In  choral  union  to  the  skies 

Their  blessings  on  my  name.  ' 

These  are  the  Wants  of  mortal  Man,  — 

I  cannot  want  them  long, 
For  life  itself  is  but  a  span, 

And  earthly  bliss  —  a  song. 
My  last  great  Want  —  absorbing  all  — 

Is,  when  beneath  the  sod, 
And  summoned  to  my  final  call, 

The  Mercy  of  my  God. 

John  Quincy  Adams. 
Washington,  August  31,  1841. 


♦ 
CONTENTMENT. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

Little  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few  ; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own  ; 


And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me  ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten  ;  — 
If  nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen  ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice  ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ;  — 

Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 
Some  good  bank-stock,  — ■  some  note  of  hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share,  — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names  ; 
I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 
But  only  near  St.  James  ; 
I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  bawbles  ;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me  ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire  ; 

(Good  heavy  silks  are  never  dear  ; )  — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  »f  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  ; 
An  easy  gait,  —  two,  forty-five,  — 
Suits  me  ;  I  do  not  care  ;  — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone,  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, 
(A  landscape,  —  foreground  golden  dirt,  — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 


Of  books  but  few,  ■ — some  fifty  score 

For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear  ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor  ;  — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam, 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 


^~ 


-EP 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


ft 


569 


Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things  as  these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
i"  value  for  their  power  to  please, 

And  selfish  churls  deride  ;  — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Tims  bumble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch  ; 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


♦ 

CONTENTATION. 

DIRECTED     TO     MY    DEAR     FATHER,    AND     MOST   WORTHY 
FRIEND,    MR.    ISAAC   WALTON. 

Heaven,  what  an  age  is  this  !  what  race 
Of  giants  are  sprung  up,  that  dare 

Thus  fly  in  the  Almighty's  face, 

And  with  his  providence  make  war  ! 

I  can  go  nowhere  but  I  meet 

With  malecontents  and  mutineers, 

As  if  in  life  was  nothing  sweet, 

And  we  must  blessings  reap  in  tears. 

0  senseless  man  !  that  murmurs  still 
For  happiness,  and  does  not  know, 

Even  though  he  might  enjoy  his  will, 
What  he  would  have  to  make  him  so. 

Is  it  true  happiness  to  be 

By  undiscerning  Fortune  placed 

In  the  1111.4  eminent  degree, 

Where  few  aiTive,  and  none  stand  fast? 

Titles  and  wealth  arc  Fortune's  toils, 
Wherewith  the  vain  themselves  i n snare  : 

The  greal  are  proud  of  borrowed  spoils, 
The  miser's  plenty  breeds  Ids  care. 

Tin-  one  supinely  yawns  at  rest, 

Tl iln'i  eternally  doth  toil  ; 

Each  of  t lii-iii  equally  a  1" 

A  pampered  horse,  or  laboring  moil : 

Thr  titulados  ofl  disgraced 

By  public  hate  or  private  frown, 


And  he  whose  hand  the  creature  raised 
Has  yet  a  foot  to  kick  him  down. 

The  drudge  who  would  all  get,  all  save, 
Like  a  brute  beast,  both  feeds  and  lies  ; 

Prone  to  the  earth,  he  digs  his  grave, 
And  in  the  very  labor  dies. 

Excess  of  ill -got,  ill-kept  pelf 

Does  only  death  and  danger  breed  ; 

Whilst  one  rich  worldling  starves  himself 
With  what  would  thousand  others  feed. 

By  which  we  see  that  wealth  and  power, 
Although  they  make  men  rich  and  great, 

The  sweets  of  life  do  often  sour, 
And  gull  ambition  with  a  cheat. 

Nor  is  he  happier  than  these, 

Who,  in  a  moderate  estate, 
Where  he  might  safely  live  at  ease, 

Has  lusts  that  are  immoderate. 

For  he,  by  those  desires  misled, 

Quits  his  own  vine's  securing  shade, 

To  expose  his  naked,  empty  head 
To  all  the  storms  man's  peace  invade. 

Nor  is  he  happy  who  is  trim, 
Tricked  up  in  favors  of  the  fair, 

Mirrors,  with  every  breath  made  dim, 
Birds,  caught  in  every  wanton  snare. 

Woman,  man's  greatest  woe  or  bliss, 
Does  oftener  far  than  serve,  enslave 

And  with  the  magic  of  a  kiss 

Destroys  whom  she  was  made  to  save. 

0  fruitful  grief,  the  world's  disease  ! 

And  vainer  man,  to  make  it  so, 
Who  gives  his  miseries  increase 

By  cultivating  his  own  woe. 

There  are  no  ills  but  what  we  make 

By  giving  shapes  and  names  to  things,  — 

Which  is  the  dangerous  mistake 
That  causes  all  our  sufferings. 

We  call  that  sickness  which  is  health, 
That  persecution  which  is  grace, 

That  poverty  which  is  true  wealth, 
And  that  dishonor  which  is  praise. 

Alas  !  our  time  is  here  so  short 
That  in  what  state  soe'er  'tis  spent, 

Of  joy  or  woe,  does  not  import, 
Provided  it  be  innocent. 

But  we  may  make  it  pleasant  too, 
If  we  will  take  OUT  measures  right, 


CB-- 


W 


570 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND    REFLECTION. 


Ami  not  what  Heaven  has  clone  undo 
By  an  unruly  appetite. 

The  worhl  is  full  of  beaten  roads, 

But  yet  so  slippery  withal, 
That  where  one  walks  secure  't  is  odds 

A  hundred  and  a  hundred  fall. 

Untrodden  paths  are  then  the  best, 
Where  the  frequented  are  unsure  ; 

And  he  conies  soonest  to  his  rest 

Whose  journey  has  been  most  secure. 

It  is  content  alone  that  makes 
Our  pilgrimage  a  pleasure  here  ; 

And  who  buys  sorrow  cheapest  takes 
An  ill  commodity  too  dear. 

CHARLES  COTTON. 


THE  REAPER. 

Behold  her  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself ; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 

0  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt 
Among  Arabian  sands  ; 
No  sweeter  voice  was  ever  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago  : 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ! 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 

1  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending  ; 
I  listened  till  I  had  my  fill ; 
And  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE   PEASANT. 

FROM    "  THE    PARISH    REGISTER." 

A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 
Noble  he  was,  contemning  all  things  mean, 
His  truth  unquestioned  and  his  soul  serene. 
Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid  ; 
At  no  man's  question  Isaac  looked  dismayed ; 
Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace  ; 
Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face  ; 
Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  soul  approved, 
Cheerful  he  seemed,  and  gentleness  he  loved  ; 
To  bliss  domestic  he  his  heart  resigned, 
And  with  the  firmest  had  the  fondest  mind  ; 
Were  others  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on, 
And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none  ; 
Good  he  refused  with  future  ill  to  buy, 
Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caused  reflection's  sigh  ; 
A  friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 
No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distressed  ; 
(Bane  of  the  poor  !  it  wounds  their  weaker  mind 
To  miss  one  favor  which  their  neighbors  find  ;) 
Yet  far  was  he  from  Stoic  pride  removed  ; 
He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  loved. 
I  marked  his  action,  when  his  infant  died, 
And  his  old  neighbor  for  offence  was  tried  ; 
The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrowed  cheek, 
Spoke  pity  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak. 
If  pride  were  his,  't  was  not  their  vulgar  pride 
Who  in  their  base  contempt  the  great  deride  ; 
Nor  pride  in  learning,  though  my  clerk  agreed, 
If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might  succeed; 
Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knew 
None  his  superior,  and  his  equals  few  ;  — 
But  if  that  spirit  in  his  soul  had  place, 
It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace  ; 
A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained 
In  sturdy  boys  to  virtuous  labors  trained  ; 
Pride  in  the  power  that  guardshis  country's  coast, 
And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast ; 
Pride  in  a  life  that  slander's  tongue  defied,  — 
In  fact,  a  noble  passion  misnamed  pride. 

George  Crabbe. 


THE   HAPPY   MAN. 

FROM    "  THE   WINTER   WALK   AT   NOON." 

He  is  the  happy  man  whose  life  even  now 
Shows  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come  ; 
Who,  doomed  to  an  obscure  but  tranquil  state, 
Is  pleased  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose, 
Would  make  his  fate  his  choice  ;  whom  peace, 

the  fruit 
Of  virtue,  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith, 
Prepare  for  happiness  ;  bespeak  him  one 
Content  indeed  to  sojourn  while  he  must 
Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  home 


-4 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


571       1 


The  world  o'erlooks  him  in  her  busy  search 

Of  objects,  more  illustrious  in  her  view  ; 

And,  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 

Though  more  sublimely,  he  o'erlooks  the  world. 

She  scorns  his  pleasures,  for  she  knows  them  not ; 

He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  proved  them  vain. 

He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 

Pursuing  gilded  flies  ;  and  such  he  deems 

Her  honors,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 

Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss, 

Whose  power  is  suchthat  whom  she  lifts  from  earth 

She  makes  familiar  with  a  heaven  unseen, 

And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  revealed. 

Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemployed, 

And  censured  oft  as  useless.     Stillest  streams 

Oft  water  fairest  meadows,  and  the  bird 

That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing. 

William  Cowper. 


HAPPINESS. 

FROM   THE   "  ESSAY   ON    MAN." 

0  happiness  !  our  being's  end  and  aim  ! 
Good,  pleasure,  ease,  content !  whate'er  thy  name  : 
That  something  still  which  prompts  the  eternal 

sigh 
For  which  we  bear  to  live  or  dare  to  die, 
Which  still  so  near  us,  yet  beyond  us  lies, 
O'erlooked,  seen  double,  by  the  fool,  and  wise. 
Plant  of  celestial  seed  !  if  dropped  below, 
Say,  in  what  mortal  soil  thou  deign' st  to  grow  ? 
Fair  opening  to  some  court's  propitious  shrine, 
Or  tier])  with  diamonds  in  the  flaming  mine  ? 
Twined  with  the  wreaths  Parnassian  laurels  yield, 
Or  reaped  in  iron  harvests  of  the  field  ? 
Where  grows  ?  —  where  grows  it  not  ?     If  vain 

our  toil, 
We  ought  to  blame  the  culture,  not  the  soil : 
%  Fixed  to  no  spot  is  happiness  sincere, 
'T  is  nowhere  to  be  found,  or  everywhere  : 
'T  is  never  to  be  bought,  but  always  free, 
And  Hid  from  monarchy  St.  John  !  dwells  with 

thee. 
Ask  of  the  learned  the  way  ?     The  learned  are 

blind  ; 
This  bids  to  serve,  and  that  to  shun  mankind  ; 
Some  place  tin'  1  diss  in  action,  some  in  ease, 
Those  call  it  pleasure,  and  contentment  these  ; 
Some,  sunk  to  beasts,  find  pleasure  end  in  pain  ; 
Some,  swelled  to  gods,  confess  even  virtue  vain  ! 
Or,  indolent,  to  each  extreme  they  fall, — 
To  t  rust  in  everything,  or  doubl  of  all. 

Who  thus  define  it,  say  they  more  or  less 
Than  this,  thai  happiness  is  happiness? 

Tali'  nature's  path,  and  mad  opinion's  leave; 
All  stalls  can  reach  it,  and  all  heads  conceive  ; 


Obvious  her  goods,  in  no  extreme  they  dwell ; 
There  needs  but  thinking  right  and  meaning  well ; 
And  mourn  our  various  portions  as  we  please, 
Equal  is  common  sense  and  common  ease. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


A   HAPPY   LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will  ; 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill  ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 

Not  tied  unto  the  world  with  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath  ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice  ;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise  ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat  ; 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 

With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend,  — 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 

And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


THE   HERMIT. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
When  naught  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  naught  butthenightingale'ssongin  the  grove, 
'T  was  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit  began ; 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  man  : 

"Ah  !  why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness  and  woe, 
Why,  lone  Philomela,  thai  languishing  fall  ? 
For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 
And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthrall. 
But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay, — 
Mourn,  sweetest  complaincr,  man  calls  thee  to 

mourn  ! 
0,  soothe  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away  ! 
Full  quickly  they  pass,  —  but  they  never  return. 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


' '  Now,  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 
The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her  crescent  dis- 
plays ; 
But  lately  I  marked  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor  again  ! 
But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew  ? 
Ah,  fool  !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

"  'T  is  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more. 
I  mourn, — but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mournnotforyou; 
For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to  restore, 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and   glittering 

with  dew. 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn,  — 
Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save  ; 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  ? 
0,  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ? 

"  'T  was  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed, 
That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to  blind, 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  onward  to 

shade, 
Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 
'0  pity,  great  Father  of  light,'  then  I  cried, 
'  Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from 

thee  ! 
Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride  ; 
From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst 

free.' 

"  And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away  ; 
No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 
So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 
The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 
See  truth,  love,  and  mercy  in  triumph  descending, 
And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom  ! 
On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are 
blending, 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb." 

James  Beattie. 


4 


THE  CROWDED   STREET. 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, 
Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 

Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 

The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come  ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face,  — 
Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and  some 

"Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

They  pass  —  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest  ; 

To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread  ; 
To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 

In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 


And  some  to  happy  homes  repair, 

Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 
Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 

Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 
Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye  ! 

Go'st  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 
Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow  ! 

Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ? 
Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 

Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 
The  dance  till  daylight  gleam  again  ? 

Who  sorrow  o'er  the  untimely  dead  ? 
Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

Some,  famine-struck,  shall  think  how  long 
The  cold,  dark  hours,  how  slow  the  light ; 

And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call, 
They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not. 

There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them  all 
In  His  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life,  that  seem 

In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 

Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 

That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


RETIREMENT. 

Farewell,  thou  busy  world,  and  may 
We  never  meet  again  ; 
Here  I  can  eat  and  sleep  and  pray, 
And  do  more  good  in  one  short  day 
Then  he  who  his  whole  age  outwears 
Upon  the  most  conspicuous  theatres, 
Where  naught  but  vanity  and  vice  appears. 

Good  God  !  how  sweet  are  all  things  here  ! 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear  ! 

How  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie  ! 
Lord  !  what  good  hours  do  we  keep  ! 
How  quietly  we  sleep  ! 

What  peace,  what  unanimity  ! 
How  innocent  from  the  lewd  fashion 
Is  all  our  business,  all  our  recreation. 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


573 


a 


O,  liow  happy  here  's  our  leisure  ! 
0,  how  innocent  our  pleasure  ! 
0  ye  valleys  !  0  ye  mountains  ! 
O  ye  groves  and  crystal  fountains  ! 
How  I  love,  at  liberty, 
By  turns  to  come  and  visit  ye  ! 

Dear  solitude,  the  soul's  best  friend, 
That  man  acquainted  with  himself  dost  make, 

And  all  his  Maker's  wonders  to  intend, 
With  thee  I  here  converse  at  will, 
And  would  be  glad  to  do  so  still, 

For  is  it  thou  alone  that  keep'st  the  soul  awake. 

How  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 

Is  it,  alone 
To  read  and  meditate  and  write, 

By  none  offended,  and  offending  none ! 
To  walk,  ride,  sit,  or  sleejiat  one's  own  ease  ; 
And,  pleasing  a  man's  self,  none  other  to  displease. 

0  my  beloved  nymph,  fair  Dove, 
Princess  of  rivers,  how  I  love 

Upon  thy  flowery  banks  to  lie, 
And  view  thy  silver  stream, 
When  gilded  by  a  summer's  beam  ! 
And  in  it  all  thy  wanton  fry 
Playing  at  liberty, 
And  with  my  angle  upon  them 
The  all  of  treachery 

1  ever  learned  industriously  to  try  ! 

Such  streams  Rome's  yellow  Tiber  cannot  show, 
The  Iberian  Tagus,  or  Ligurian  Po  ; 
The  Maese,  the  Danube,  and  the  Rhine, 
Are  puddle-water,  all,  compared  with  thine  ; 
And  Loire's  pure  streams  yet  too  polluted  are 
With  thine,  much  purer,  to  compare  ; 
The  rapid  Garonne  and  the  winding  Seine 
Are  both  too  mean, 

Beloved  Dove,  with  thee 

To  vie  priority  ; 
Nay,  Tame  ami  Isis,  when  conjoined,  submit, 
And  lay  their  trophies  at  thy  silver  feet. 

0  my  beloved  rocks,  that  rise 

To  awe  the  earth  ami  brave  the  skies  ! 

From  some  aspiring  mountain's  crown 

How  dearly  do  I  love, 
Giddy  with  pleasure,  to  look  down, 
And  from  tl  to  view  the  noble  heights 

above  I 
0  my  beloved  caves  I  from  dog-star's  heat, 
And  all  anxieties,  my  Bafe  retreat ; 
What  safety,  privacy,  what  true  delight, 
In  the  artificial  night 

Your  gloomy  entrails  make, 

Have  I  taken,  do  1  take  ! 
How  oft,  when  grief  baa  made  me  fly, 
To  hide  me  from  society 


E'en  of  my  dearest  friends,  have  I, 

In  your  recesses'  friendly  shade, 
All  my  sorrows  open  laid, 

And  my  most  secret  woes  intrusted  to  your 
privacy  ! 

Lord  !  would  men  let  me  alone, 
What  an  over-happy  one 

Should  I  think  myself  to  be,  — 
Might  I  in  this  desert  place, 
("Which  most  men  in  discourse  disgrace,) 

Live  but  undisturbed  and  free  ! 
Here  in  this  despised  recess, 

Would  I,  maugre  winter's  cold 
And  the  summer's  worst  excess, 
Try  to  live  out  to  sixty  full  years  old  ; 
And,  all  the  while, 

Without  an  envious  eye 
On  any  thriving  under  Fortune's  smile, 
Contented  live,  and  then  contented  die. 

Charles  Cotton. 


VERSES 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  ALEXANDER  SELKIRK, 
DURING  HIS  SOLITARY  ABODE  IN  THE  ISLAND  OF 
JUAN    FERNANDEZ. 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey,  — 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute  ; 

From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  Solitude  !  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach  ; 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech,  — 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 

My  form  with  indifference  see  ; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  tamencss  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love, 

Divinely  bestowed  upon  man  ! 
0,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove, 

How  soon  would  1  taste  you  again  ! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 

In  tin-  ways  of  religion  and  truth,  — 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  a 

And  be  cheered  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Religion  !  what  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  !  — 

More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 
Or  all  that  tins  earth  can  afford  ; 


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But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 
These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard, 

Never  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 
Or  smiled  when  a  sabbath  appeared. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial,  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more  ! 
My  friends,  —  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
0,  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  1  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind  ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there  ; 
But,  alas  !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 
The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair  ; 

Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 
And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 

There  's  mercy  in  every  place, 

And  mercy  —  encouraging  thought !  — 

Gives  even  affliction  a  grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

William  Cowper. 


THE  GOOD   GREAT  MAN. 

How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honor  and  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  pains! 
It  seems  a  story  from  the  world  of  spirits 
"When  any  man  obtains  that  which  he  merits, 
Or  any  merits  that  which  he  obtains. 

For  shame,  my  friend  !  renounce  this  idle  strain  ! 
"What  wouldst  thou  have  a  good  great  man  ob- 
tain ? 
Wealth,  title,  dignity,  a  golden  chain, 
Or  heap  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  ? 
Goodness  and  greatness  are  not  means,  but  ends. 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 
The  great  good  man  ?     Three  treasures,  —  love, 
and  light, 
And  calm  thoughts,  equable  as  infant's  breath  ; 
And  three  fast  friends,  more  sure  than  day  or 
night,  — 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

SAMUKL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


EXAMPLE. 

We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  hand, 

And  dream  we  ne'er  shall  see  them  more  ; 
But  for  a  thousand  years 
Their  fruit  appears, 
In  weeds  that  mar  the  land, 
Or  healthful  store. 

The  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say,  — 
Into  still  air  they  seem  to  fleet, 
We  count  them  ever  past ; 
But  they  shall  last,  — 
In  the  dread  judgment  they 
And  we  shall  meet ! 

I  charge  thee  by  the  years  gone  by, 

For  the  love's  sake  of  brethren  dear, 

Keep  thou  the  one  true  way, 

In  work  and  play, 

Lest  in  that  world  their  cry 

Of  woe  thou  hear. 

John  Keble. 


MERCY. 

FROM    "MERCHANT   OF   VENICE." 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained,  — 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blessed,  — 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 

'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown  ; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  : 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway,  — 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself  ; 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 

When  mercy  seasons  justice. 

Shakespeare. 


THE   GLOVE  AND  THE   LIONS. 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a 

royal  sport, 
And  one  day,  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on 

the  court. 
The  nobles  filled  the  benches,  with  the  ladies  in 

their  pride, 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge,  with 

one  for  whom  he  sighed  : 
And  truly  't  was   a  gallant   thing  to   see   that 

crowning  show, 
Valor  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and  the  royal 

beasts  below. 


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Ramped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  horrid  laugh- 
ing jaws  ; 

The}'  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like  beams,  a 
wind  went  with  their  paws  ; 

With  wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar  they  rolled 
on  one  another, 

Till  all  the  pit  with  sand  and  mane  was  in  a 
thunderous  smother ; 

The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came  whisking 
through  the  air ; 

Said  Francis  then,  "Faith,  gentlemen,  we're 
better  here  than  there." 

De  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  King,  a  beauteous 

lively  dame, 
With  smiling  lips  and  sharp  bright  eyes,  which 

always  seemed  the  same  ; 
She  thought,  The  Count  my  lover  is  brave  as 

brave  can  be  ; 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show  his 

love  of  me  ; 
King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on  ;  the  occasion  is 

divine  ; 
I  '11  drop  my  glove,  to  prove  his  love  ;  great  glory 

will  be  mine. 

She  dropped  her  glove,  to  prove  his  love,  then 
looked  at  him  and  smiled  ; 

He  bowed,  and  in  a  moment  leaped  among  the 
lions  wild  : 

The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick,  he  has  re- 
gained his  place, 

Then  threw  the  glove,  but  not  with  love,  right 
in  the  lady's  face. 

"By  Heaven,"  said  Francis,  "  rightly  done  !  " 
and  he  rose  from  where  he  sat ; 

"No  love,"  quoth  he,  "but  vanity,  sets  love  a 
task  like  that." 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


PERFECTION. 

FROM    "  KING   JOHN." 

To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 

To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 

To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 

Onto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 

To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish, 

Is  wasteful,  and  ridiculous  excess. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


IMPUTATION. 


FROM     "OTHELLO. 


Goon  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my  lord, 
Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls  : 


Who  steals  my  purse,  steals  trash  ;  't  is  some- 
thing, nothing ; 

'T  was  mine,  't  is  his,  and  has  been  slave  to 
thousands ; 

But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name 

Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 

And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


SLEEP. 


Weep  ye  no  more,  sad  fountains  ! 

AVhat  need  you  flow  so  fast  ? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 
Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste. 
But  my  sun's  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping, 
That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleeping 

Sleep  is  a  reconciling,  — 

A  rest  that  peace  begets  ; 

Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling, 

When  fair  at  even  he  sets  ? 

Rest  you  then,  rest,  sad  eyes,  — 

Melt  not  in  weeping, 

While  she  lies  sleeping 

Softly,  now  softly  lies 

Sleeping. 

John  dowlandi 


INVOCATION   TO  SLEEP. 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving 

Lock  me  in  delight  awhile  ; 

Let  some  pleasing  dreams  beguile 

All  my  fancies,  that  from  thence 

I  may  feel  an  influence, 
All  my  powers  of  care  bereaving  ! 

Though  but  a  shadow,  but  a  sliding, 

Let  me  know  some  little  joy  ! 

We  that  suffer  long  annoy 

Are  contented  with  a  thought, 

Through  an  idle  fancy  wrought  : 
0,  let  my  joys  have  some  abiding  ! 

BEAUMONT  and  FLETCHER. 


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SLEEP. 

Come,  Sleep,  0  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low, 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 

Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw  ; 

0,  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  : 

I  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed  ; 

A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light  ; 

A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me 

Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


SLEEP. 


Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Among  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this,  — 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  "  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved,  — 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep,  — 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse,  — 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ? 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved,  — 
A  little  dust,  to  overweep,  — 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake, 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !  "  we  sometimes  say, 

But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep  ; 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

0  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noise  ! 
0  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voice  ! 
0  delved  gold  the  wailers  heap  ! 
0  strife,  0  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall  ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap  ; 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
"He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart,  tfiat  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 


That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 

Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 

Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose 

Who  "giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


SLEEP. 

FROM  "SECOND  PART  OF  HENRY  IV." 

King  Henry.    How  many  thousand   of  my 

poorest  subjects 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep  !  —  0  sleep  !    0  gentle 

sleep  ! 
Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  thee, 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down, 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness  ? 
Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, 
And   hushed   with   buzzing   night-flies  to   thy 

slumber, 
Than  in  the  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great, 
Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state, 
And  lulled  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody  ? 
0  thou  dull  god  !  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile, 
In  loathsome  beds,  and  leav'st  the  kingly  couch, 
A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'larum-bell  ? 
Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge, 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds, 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top, 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 
With  deafening  clamors  in  the  slippery  clouds, 
That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes  ? 
Canst  thou,  0  partial  sleep  !  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude  ; 
And  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night, 
With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot, 
Deny  it  to  a  king  ?    Then,  happy  low,  lie  down, 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

FROM    "  FIRST    PART   OF    HENRY    IV." 

Glendower.    She  bids   you  on  the   wanton 
rushes  lay  you  down, 
And  rest  your  gentle  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  she  will  sing  the  song  that  pleaseth  you, 
And  on  your  eyelids  crown  the  god  of  sleep, 
Charming  your  blood  with  pleasing  heaviness  ; 
Making  such  difference  betwixt  wake  and  sleep, 
As  is  the  difference  betwixt  day  and  night, 
The  hour  before  the  heavenly-harnessed  team 
Begins  his  golden  progress  in  the  east. 

FROM    "CYMBELINE." 

Weariness 
Can  snore  upon  the  flint,  when  restive  sloth 
Finds  the  down  pillow  hard. 


a 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


577 


•ft 


FROM     '  MACBETH. 


Macbeth  does  murder  sleep,  —  the  innocent  sleep, 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravelled  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast. 


FROM    "THE   TEMPEST. 


"We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


IANTHE,    SLEEPING. 

How  wonderful  is  Death  ! 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  ! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue  ; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
When,  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world  : 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
"Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  suow, 
That  lovely  outline  which  is  fair 
breathing  marble,  perish  ? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ? 
Sparc  nothing  but  a  gloomy  theme, 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralize  ? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o'er  sensation, 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darkness? 
"Will  lanthe  wake  again, 
And  give  thai  faithful  bosom  joy, 
Wh  spirit  waits  to  catch 

Light,  life,  and  rapture  from  her  smile? 

Yes  '   she  will  wake  again, 
Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless, 
And  silenl  those  swei  t  lips, 
Once  breathing  eloquence 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage, 
Or  thawed  the  cold  heart  of  a  conqueror. 
Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 


Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath, 
The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed  : 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  pride, 
Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 
Around  a  marble  column. 

A  gentle  start  convulsed  Ianthe's  frame  : 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed  ; 
Moveless  awhile  the  dark  blue  orbs  remained. 
She  looked  around  in  wonder,  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneeled  in  silence  by  her  couch, 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speechless  love, 
And  the  bright-beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone. 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLEY. 


SLEEPLESSNESS. 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring  ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky ; 

I  've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  still  I  lie 
Sleepless  ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees, 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more  I  lay, 

And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep  !  by  any  stealth  : 

So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away  : 

Without  thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth  ? 

Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 

Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


CARILLON. 

Ix  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 
As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  ami  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  hells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 

Ami,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Sileme,  silence  everywhere, 


c&— 


tfr 


57S 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECT] ON. 


4 


On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 
By  the  .street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a  moment  woke  the  eehoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I  heard  those  magic  numbers, 
As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stole  marches  of  the  night ; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling  ; 
All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes, 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundela}\s, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 
Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 
On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities  ! 
For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 
And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 
Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 
But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas  ! 
Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a  sleepless  wight, 

Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 

In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 

Shut  out  the  incessant  din 

Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 

May  listen  with  a  calm  delight 

To  the  poet's  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 

Intermingled  with  the  song, 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long  ; 

Ibars  amid  the  chime  and  singing 

The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 

And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous  eyes 

Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 

Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I  lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening  with  a  wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  cjuaint  old  Flemish  city. 

Henry  Wad.sworth  Longfellow. 


THE  DREAM   OF   CLARENCE. 

FROM    "RICHARD    III." 

Clarence.  0, 1  have  passed  a  miserable  night ! 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  't  were  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days,  — 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time  ! 
Methought  that  I  had  broken  from  the  Tower, 
And  was  embarked  to  cross  to  Burgundy, 
And,  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloster, 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the   hatches ;   thence   we   looked   toward 

England, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster, 
That  had  befallen  us.     As  we  paced  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought  that  Gloster  stumbled  ;  and,  in  fall- 
ing. 
Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him,  overboard, 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 

0  Lord  !  methought  what  pain  it  was  to  drown  ! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  mine  ears  ! 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes  ! 
Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks  ; 

A  thousand  men  that  fishes  gnawed  upon  ; 
Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl,. 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 
All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea  : 
Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls  ;  and  in  those  holes 
Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept 
(As  't  were  in  scorn  of  eyes)  reflecting  gems, 
That  wooed  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 
And  mocked  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scattered  by. 

Bkakexbury.    Had  you  such  leisure,  in  the 
time  of  death, 
To  gaze  upon  these  secrets  of  the  deep  ? 

Clar.   Methought  I  had  ;  and  often  did  I  strive 
To  yield  the  ghost :  but  still  the  envious  flood 
Stopt  in  my  soul,  and  wonld  not  let  it  forth 
To  seek  the  empty,  vast,  and  wandering  air  ; 
But  smothered  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.    Awaked  you  not  with  this  sore  agony  ? 

Clar.  No,  no,  my  dream  was  lengthened  after 
life; 
0,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul  ! 

1  passed,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood, 
With  that  grim  ferryman  which  poets  write  of, 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 

The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul 
Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick  ; 
Who  cried  aloud,  "What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence  ?" 
And  so  he  vanished  :  then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 


-s 


B— 


■-B 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


579 


Dabbled  in  blood  ;  and  he  shrieked  out  aloud, 

"Clarence   is   come,  —  false,   fleeting,    perjured 

Clarence,  — 

That  stabbed  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbury  ;  — 

Seize  on  him,  Furies !  take  him  to  your  torments ! " 

With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 

Environed  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 

Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise, 

I  trembling  waked,  and,  for  a  season  after, 

Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell,  — 

Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream. 

Shakespeare. 


THE   DREAM. 


Our  life  is  twofold  ;  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 

A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 

Death  and  existence  :  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 

And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 

And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 

And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 

They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 

They  take  a  weight  from  off  waking  toils, 

They  do  divide  our  being  ;  they  become 

A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 

And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity  ; 

They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past,  — they  speak 

Like  sibyls  of  the  future  ;  they  have  power,  — 

The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 

They  make  us  what  we  were  not, — what  they 

will, 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that 's  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanished  shadows.  — Are  they  so  ? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?     What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ? —  The  mind  can  make 
Substances,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
"With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
1  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dreamed 
Perchance  in  sleep,  —  for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

II. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  lines  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green  and  <>i  a  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  'twere  the  en] fa  long  ridge  of  such, 

Save  that    tle-re  was  no  sea   to  lave  its  D8    I  . 

But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  tin'  wave 
<  >f  woods  and  cornfields,  ami  the  abodes  of  men 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roots  ;  the  hill 
Was  crowned  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fixed, 


Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man  : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing,  —  the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself,  —  but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful  : 
And  both  were  young,  —  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 
As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood  ; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him  ;  he  had  looked 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away  ; 
He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers  ; 
She  was  his  voice  ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words  ;  she  was  his  sight, 
For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  colored  all  his  objects  ;  —  he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself  :  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all  ;  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 
And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously,  —  his  heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 
But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share  : 
Her  sighs  were  not  for  him  ;  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother,  —  but  no  more  ;  't  was  much, 
For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  on  him  ; 
Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 
Of  a  time-honored  race.     It  was  a  name 
Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not,  — 

and  why  ? 
Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer —  when  she  loved 
Another  ;  even  noiv  she  loved  another, 
And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

in. 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a,  steed  caparisoned  ; 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 
The  boy  of  whom  I  spake  ;  -  he  was  alone, 
And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro  :  anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 
Words  which  1  could  not  guessof ;  then  he  leaned 
His  bowed  head  on  Ins  hands  and  shook,  as  't 

were 
With  a  convulsion,  -   then  ruse  again, 
Ami  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
What   he  had  written,   hut  he  shed  no  tears 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  ami  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiei  ;  as  he  paused, 

The  lady  of  his  love  re  entered   there  ; 

she  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yef 

She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved  ;  she  knew  — 


•ff 


a- 


580 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   EEFLECTION. 


*TD 


For   quickly   comes   such   knowledge,   that  his 

heart 
Was  darkened  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 
He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand  ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came  ; 
He  dropped  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 
Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 
For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles  ;  he  passed 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall. 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way ; 
And  ne'er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

IV. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  boy  was  sprung  to  manhood  ;  in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams  ;  he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects  ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer  ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couched  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruined  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  reared  them  ;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fastened  near  a  fountain  ;  and  a  man, 
Clad  in  a  (lowing  garb,  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumbered  around  : 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 

Who  did  not  love  her  better  :  in  her  home, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  his,  —  her  native  home, 

She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 

Daughters  and  sons  of  beauty,  —  but  behold  ! 

Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 

The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 

And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 

As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 

What  could  her  grirf  be  ?  —  she  had  all  she  loved, 

And  In-  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 

To  trouble  with  bail  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 

Or  ill-repressed  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 

What  could  her  grief  be?  —  she  had  loved  him 

not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  preyed 
Upon  her  mind  —  a  spectre  of  the  past. 


VI. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  returned.  —  I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  altar —  with  a  gentle  bride  ; 
Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  starlight  of  his  boyhood  ;  —  as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  selfsame  aspect  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude  ;  and  then  — - 
As  in  that  hour  —  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced,  —  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 
And  all  things  reeled  around  him  ;  he  could  see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have 

been,  — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed  hall, 
And  the  remembered  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 
And  thrust  themselves betweenhimand  the  light ; 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ? 

VII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love  ;  — ■  0,  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul  !  her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The'queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things  ; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy  ;  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift  ; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

VIII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore, 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  with  him  ;  he  was  a  mark 
For  blight  and  desolation,  compassed  round 
With  hatred  and  contention  ;  pain  was  mixed 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 
bike  to  the  Pontiac  monarch  of  old  days, 
He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 
Hut  were  a  kind  of  nutriment ;  he  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  tomany  men. 


rh 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


581 


■ft 


And  made  him  friends  of  mountains  ;  with  the 

stars 
And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  universe 
He  held  his  dialogues  :  and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 
To  him  the  hook  of  Night  was  opened  wide, 
And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revealed 
A  marvel  and  a  secret.  —  Be  it  so. 

IX. 

My  dream  was  past ;  it  had  no  further  change. 

It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality,  — the  one 

To  end  in  madness,  —  both  in  misery. 

Byron. 


YUSSOUF. 

A  stranger  came  one  night  to  Yussouf  s  tent, 
Saying,  "  Behold  one  outcast  and  in  dread, 
Against  whose  life  the  bow  of  power  is  bent, 
Who  flies,  and  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head  ; 
I  come  to  thee  for  shelter  and  for  food, 
To  Yussouf,  called  through  all  our  tribes  '  The 
Good.'" 

"This  tent  is  mine,"  said  Yussouf,  "but  no  more 

Than  it  is  God's  ;  come  in,  and  be  at  peace  ; 

Freely  slialt  thou  partake  of  all  my  store 

As  I  of  His  who  bnildeth  over  these 

Our  tents  his  glorious  roof  of  night  and  day, 

And  at  whose  door  none  ever  yet  heard  Nay." 

So  Yussouf  entertained  his  guest  that  night, 
And,  waking  him  ere  day,  said  :   "  Here  is  gold, 
My  swiftest  horse  is  saddled  for  thy  flight, 
Depart  before  the  prying  day  grow  bold." 
As  one  lamp  lights  another,  nor  grows  less, 
So  nobleness  enkindleth  nobleness. 

That  inward  light  the  stranger's  face  made  grand, 
Which  shines  from  all  self-conquest ;  kneeling  low, 
Hi-  bowed  his  forehead  upon  YussouFs  hand, 
Sobbing  :   "0  Sheik,  1  cannot  leave  thee  so  ; 
1  will  repay  thee  ;  all  this  thou  hasl  done 
Unto  thai  Ibrahim  who  slew  thy  son  !" 

"Take  thrice  the  gold,"  said  Yussouf,  "forwith 

thee 

Into  the  ilescrt,  never  to  return, 
My  one  Mark  thought  shall  ride  away  from  me  ; 
First-born,  for  whom  by  day  and  night  I  yearn, 
Balanced  and  just  are  all  of  God's  decn 
Thouarl  avenged,  my  first-born,  sleep  in  peace  !" 

J  \.\n  i  RUSSBI  I.  LOWBLL. 


JAFFAR. 

Jaffar,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  vizier, 
The  poor  man's  hope,  the  friend  without  a  peer, 
Jaffar  was  dead,  slain  by  a  doom  unjust ; 
And  guilty  Haroun,  sullen  with  mistrust 
Of  what  the  good,  and  e'en  the  bad,  might  say, 
Ordained  that  no  man  living  from  that  day' 
Should  dare  to  speak  his  name  on  pain  of  death. 
All  Araby  and  Persia  held  their  breath  ; 

All  but  the  brave  Mondeer  :  he,  proud  to  show 
How  far  for  love  a  grateful  soul  could  go, 
And  facing  death  for  very  scorn  and  grief 
(For  his  great  heart  wanted  a  great  relief), 
Stood  forth  in  Bagdad  daily,  in  the  square 
Where  once  had  stood  a  happy  house,  and  there 
Harangued  the  tremblers  at  the  scymiitar 
On  all  they  owed  to  the  divine  Jaffar. 

"  Bring  me  this  man,"  the  caliph  cried  ;  the  man 
Was  brought,  was  gazed  upon.  The  mutes  began 
To  bind  his   arms.     "Welcome,  brave  cords," 

cried  he  ; 
' '  From  bonds  far  worse  Jaffar  delivered  me  ; 
From  wants,  from  shames,  from  loveless  house- 
hold fears  ; 
Made  a  man's  eyes  friends  with  delicious  tears  ; 
Restored  me,  loved  me,  put  me  on  a  par 
With  his  great  self.     How  can  I  pay  Jaffar  ? " 

Haroun,  who  felt  that  on  a  soul  like  this 
The  mightiest  vengeance  could  but  fall  amiss, 
Now  deigned  to  smile,  as  one  great  lord  of  i'ate 
Might  smile  upon  another  half  as  great. 
He  said,  "  Let  worth  grow  frenzied  if  it  will ; 
The  caliph's  judgment  shall  be  master  still. 
Go,  and  since  gifts  so  move  thee,  take  this  gem, 
The  richest  in  the  Tartar's  diadem, 
Ami  hold  the  giver  as  thou  deemest  fit  ! " 
"Gifts  !  "  cried  the  friend  ;  lie  took,  and  hold- 
ing it 
High  toward  the  heavens,  as  though  to  meet  his 
star, 

Exclaimed,  "This,  too,  I  owe  to  thee,  Jaffar  !" 

LEIGH   HUNT. 


HARMOSAtf. 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Persian 

throne  was  done. 
And  the  .Moslem's   fiery  valor  had  the  crowning 
\  Lctory  won. 

Harmosan,  the   last  ami   boldest    the   invader   to 

defy, 
Captive,  overborne  by  numbers,  they  were  bring- 
ing forth  to  die. 


# 


c=r 


582 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


Then  exclaimed  that  noble  captive:  "Lo,  I  per- 
ish in  my  thirst ; 

Give  me  but  one  drink  of  water,  and  let  then 
arrive  the  worst  !  " 

In  his  hand  he  took  the  goblet ;  but  awhile  the 

draught  forbore, 
Seeming  doubtfully  the  purpose  of  the  foeman  to 

explore. 

Well  might  then  have  paused  the  bravest,  — for, 

around  him,  angry  foes 
With  a  hedge  of  naked  weapons  did  that  lonely 

man  enclose. 

"But  what  fear'st  thou?"  cried  the  caliph;  "is 

it,  friend,  a  secret  blow  ? 
Fear   it    not !    our  gallant    Moslems    no    such 

treacherous  dealing  know. 

"Thou  mayst  quench  thy  thirst   securely,  for 

thou  shalt  not  die  before 
Thouhast  drunk  that  cup  of  water,  —  this  reprieve 

is  thine  —  no  more  ! " 

Quick  the  satrap  dashed  the  goblet  down  to 
earth  with  ready  hand, 

And  the  liquid  sank  forever,  lost  amid  the  burn- 
ing sand. 

"  Thou  hast  said  that  mine  my  life  is,  till  the 

water  of  that  cup 
I    have    drained  ;    then    bid    thy  servants    that 

spilled  water  gather  up  !  " 

For  a  moment  stood  the  caliph  as  by  doubtful 

passions  stirred  ; 
Then  exclaimed,  "Forever  sacred  must  remain 

a  monarch's  word. 

"  Bring   another   cup,  and   straightway  to   the 

noble  Persian  give  : 

Diink,   I  said  before,  and  perish, — now  I  bid 

thee  drink  and  live  !  " 

Richard  Chenevix  Trench. 


ABOU   BEN   ADHEM. 

About  Bex  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  : 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"Whatwritest  thou?"  —  The  vision  raised  its 

head, 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,   "The  names  of  those  who  love  the 

Lord." 


"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.    "Nay,  not 

so, 
Replied  the  angel.  —  Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  "1  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had 

blessed,  — 
And,  lo  !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest  ! 

LEIGH   HUNT. 


A   PSALM   OF   LIFE. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  Jiey  seem. 

Life  is  real  !   Life  is  earnest  ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

"Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant  ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present  ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ;  — 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  ba  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

HENRY  WAOSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 


[B~ 


ff 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   EEFLECTION. 


ft 


583 


FROM   PHILASTER. 

/  fouxd  him  sitting  by  a  fountain-side, 
Of  which  he  borrowed  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears. 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself, 
Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  bay, 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me  :  but  ever  when  he  turned 
His  tender  eyes  upon  them  he  would  weep, 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  them  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  asked  him  all  his  story. 
He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died, 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 
Which  gave  him  roots  ;  and  of  the  crystal  springs, 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses  ;  and  the  sun, 
Whichstill,  hethankedhim,  yielded  him  his  light. 
Then  took  lie  up  his  garland,  and  did  show 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold, 
Did  signify  ;  and  how  all,  ordered  thus, 
Expressed  his  grief  ;  and  to  my  thoughts  did  read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wished  ;  so  that  methought  I  could 
Have  studied  it.     I  gladly  entertained  him, 
Who  was  as  glad  to  follow. 

BEAUMONT  and   FLETCHER. 


WHY  THUS   LONGING? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing, 
For  the  far-off,  unattained  and  dim, 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  .' 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still  ; 

Leal' and  flower  ami  laden  bee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  ami  joy  canst  throw, 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  ami  woe  ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten, — 
Xo  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own  ; 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten, 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Harriet  Winslow. 


'T  IS   SWEET. 

M    "  DON     JU  Ut. 

....  "I'  is  sweet  to  hear, 
At  midnighl  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep, 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier, 

By  distance  mellowed,   o'er  tic-  waters  sweep; 


'T  is  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear  ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 
From  leaf  to  leaf  ;  't  is  sweet  to  view  on  high 
The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky. 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark 
Bay  deep-mouthed  welcome  as  we  draw  near 
home  ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come  ; 

'T  is  sweet  to  be  awakened  by  the  lark, 

Or  lulled  by  falling  waters  ;  sweet  the  hum 

Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 

The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  grapes 
In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth, 

Purple  and  gushing  :  sweet  are  our  escapes 
From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  ; 

Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps  ; 
Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first -horn's  birth  ; 

Sweet  is  revenge,  — especially  to  women, 

Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

'T  is  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one's  laurels, 
By  blood  or  ink  ;  't  is  sweet  to  put  an  end 

To   strife;    'tis  sometimes  sweet   to    have   our 
quarrels, 
Particularly  with  a  tiresome  friend  ; 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels  ; 
Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 

Against  the  world  ;  and  dear  the  school-boy    pot, 

We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 

But  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than  all, 
Is  first  and  passionate  love,  — it  stands  alone, 

Like  Adam's  recollection  of  his  fall  ; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  lias  been  plucked, —  all 's 
known,  — 

And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 
Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin,  so  shown, 

No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 

Fire  which  Prometheus  filched  for  us  from  heaven. 

BVKON. 


i:  ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackesl  Midnight  born! 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 
'Mongsl    horrid  shapes,  and   shrieks,   and   sights 
unholy, 

Find  out    some  uncouth  cell, 
Where     brooding    darkness    spreads   his   jealous 

wings, 
And  the  night-raven  Binga  ; 
There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-browed  rocks, 


IB- 


& 


584 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


"*~Qn 


As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  ycleped  Euphrosyne, 
And,  by  nun,  heart-easing  Mirth  ! 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  ; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sages  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing,  — 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  — 
There,  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity,  — 
Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek,  — 
Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter,  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come  !  and  trip  it,  as  you  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 
And  if  1  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free,  — 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  Night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  Dawn  doth  rise  ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  Sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine  ; 
"While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn  door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  ; 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill  ; 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  (light ; 
While  tin-  ploughman  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o'er  tin-  furrowed  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 


And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray,  — 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest,  — 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide. 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 
Hard  byr,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses  ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves  ; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 
Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade  ; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday, 
Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail ; 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-hrown  ale 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat  : 
How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat,  — 
She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said, 
And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led  ; 
Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end  ; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 
And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 
And,  crop-full,  out  of  doors  he  flings 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 
By  wdiispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 
Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold 
In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold,  — 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 


& 


-i 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


-ttJ 


585 


Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 
With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry,  — 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream  ; 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Johnson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  heed  ami  giddy  cunning 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony,  — 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice. 


These  delights  if  thou  canst  trive, 


Mirth,  with  thee  1  mean  to  live. 


John  Milton. 


MUSIC. 


FROM        TWELFTH    NIGHT. 


Duke.   If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on 

Give  me  excess  of  it,  that,  surfeiting, 

The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 

That  strain  again  ;  —  it  had  a  dying  fall  : 

0,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweel  south, 

Thai  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 

Stealing,  and  giving  odor. 

Shakespeare. 


The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell, 

Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell  ; 
And  feeling  hearts      touch  them  hut  rightly  — 

pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 


FROM        MERCHANT    OP    VBNK  ! 

Lorenzo.   How  sweel   the  moonlight   Bleeps 
upon  this  hank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 


Creep  in  our  ears  :  soft  stillness,  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica  ;  look,  bow  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  : 
There 's   not   the   smallest  orb  which  thou  be- 

hold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins  ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  : 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

Jessica.  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet 

music. 
Lor.  The  reason  is  your  spirits  are  attentive. 

Therefore  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and 

floods  ; 
Since  naught  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus  : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory,  — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Pose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 

Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 

And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 

Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

Shelley. 


Where  music  dwells 

Lingering,  and  wandering  on,  as  loath  to  die, 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

Wl  IRDSWORTH. 


Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast, 
To  soften  rocks,  or  bend  a  knotted  oak. 

CONGREVE. 


ALEXANDER'S   FEAST;   OR  THE  POWER 
OF   MUSIC. 


'TWAS  at  the  royal  fast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  ; 

Aloft   in  awful  stale 

The  godlike  hero  sate 


■# 


586 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


On  his  imperial  throne  : 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  hound  ; 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  / 
None  but  the  brave, 
None,  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre  ; 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love. ) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god  ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
"When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed  ; 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast  ; 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign 

of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity  !  they  shout  around  ; 
A  present  deity  !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Ali'ects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

CHORUS. 
With  ravished  ems 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  splieres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician 
sung, 
Of  Bacchus  —  ever  fair  and  ever  young  : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes  ; 
Sound  the  trumpets  ;  beat  the  drums  : 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  holiest  Tare  : 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath.     He  conies  !  he 
comes ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 
Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  ; 


Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  ; 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier  s  pleasure  ; 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain  ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes  ;  and  thrice  he 
slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise  ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes  ; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius,  great  and  good  ; 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed  ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below  ; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole  ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  lie  stole; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 

That  love  was  in  the  next  degree  ; 

'T  was  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soid  to  pleasures. 

War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  ; 

Honor,  but  an  empty  bubble  ; 
Never  ending,  still  beginning, 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 

Think,  0,  think  it  worth  enjoying  ! 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 


t& 


■ff 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


587       1 


The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause  ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
"Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

CHORUS. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
SigJied  and  looked,  and  sighed  again : 
At  length,  with  loee  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
Tlie  vanquislicd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  : 
A  louder  yet,  ami  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head  ; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge  !  revenge  !   Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  furies  arise  ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair  ! 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  ! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  band  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain, 
Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy  ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  II  a  mbeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy  ! 

CHOItUS. 

And the  king seized  a flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy ; 

Tlutis  led  /lie  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy  I 

Thus  long  a 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  ye1  were  mute  ; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 


And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With   nature's   mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies. 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

GRAXD   CHORUS. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 

The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 

With  nature's  mother-wit,   and  arts  unknown 

before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  tlie  crown  ; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 

SJie  drew  an  angel  down. 

JOHN  dryden. 


THE  PASSIONS. 


AN   ODE    FOR    MUSI£. 


When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
"While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell,  — 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting,  — 
Possest  beyond  the  muse's  painting  ; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  ; 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound  ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Svi  eet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  ("for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  cords  bewildered  laid, 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed  ;  bis  eyes,  on  fire, 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings  : 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 


[fl- 


-ff 


c& 


588 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND    REFLECTION. 


With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 

Low,  sullen  sounds,  his  grief  beguiled,  — 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air  ; 
'T  was  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  't  was  wild. 

But  thou,  0  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair,  — 

"What  was  thy  delightful  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song  ; 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  ; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her 

golden  hair. 
And  longer  had  she  sung  —  but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose  ; 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down ; 
And,  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
"Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe  ! 
And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat  ; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting 
from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  fixed,  — 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ; 

Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed  ; 
And  now  it  courted  love,  — now,  raving, 
called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired  ; 
And  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive 
soul  ; 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound  ; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  meas- 
ure stole  ; 
Or  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  0,  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blewaninspiringair,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, — 
The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad  known  ! 


The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their   chaste-eyed 
queen, 
Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  ; 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear  ; 

AndSportleapt  up,  andseizedhisbeechenspear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial  : 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest  ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk-awakening  viol, 

Whose  sweet  entrancingvoicehelovedthe  best ; 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain, 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids, 
Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 
Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round  : 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound  ; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

0  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  pleasure,  wisdom's  aid  ! 
Why,  goddess  !  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  0  nymph  endeared, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard  ; 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art  ? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime  ! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page  ; 
'T  is  said  —  and  I  believe  the  tale  — 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age,  — 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found,  — 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound. 
0,  bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease  ; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece  ! 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state,  — 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  ! 

WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began  ; 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 


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The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  ! 
Then  cold  and  hot  and  moist  and  dry- 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began  : 

From  harmony  to  harmony, 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

"What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  though  t  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger, 

.And  mortal  alarms, 
The  double  double  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries,  hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge,  't  is  too  late  to  retreat. 

The  soft  complaining  (lute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs,  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion, 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

But  0,  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach, 

The  sacred  organ's  praise  ? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lend  the  savage  race  ; 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place, 

[uacious  of  the  lyre  ; 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher  ; 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  Btraight  appeared 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

GUAM)    (Hours. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 
The  spheres  began  to  move, 


And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above  ; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  Iwur 
This  crumbling  pageant  sludl  devour, 
Tlie  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  slutll  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  sliall  untune  the  sky. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 


MAN. 


How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful,  is  man  ! 
How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such  ! 
Who  centred  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes, 
From  different  natures  marvellously  mixed, 
Connection  exquisite  of  distant  worlds  ! 
Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain  ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity  ! 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied,  and  absorpt  ! 
Though  sullied  and  dishonored,  still  divine  ! 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  ! 
An  heir  of  glory  !  a  frail  child  of  dust ! 
Helpless  immortal  !  insect  infinite  ! 
A  worm  !  a  God  !  —  I  tremble  at  myself, 
And  in  myself  am  lost.     At  home,  a  stranger, 
Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 
And  wondering  at  her  own.     How  reason  reels  ! 
0,  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man  ! 
Triumphantly  distressed !  What  joy  !  what  dread  ! 
Alternately  transported  and  alarmed  ! 
What  can  preserve  my  life  ?  or  what  destroy  ? 
An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave  ; 
Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 

Dr.  Edward  Young. 


MAN  — WOMAN. 

Man's  hnmc  is  cvcryichcrc.     On  ocean's  flood, 
Where  the  strong  ship  with  storm-defying  tcthei 
Doth  link  in  stormy  brotherhood 
Earth's  utmost  zones  together, 
Where'er  the  red  gold  glows,  the  spice-trees  wave, 
Where  the  rich  diamond  ripens,  mid  the  flame 
Of  vertic  suns  that  ope  the  stranger's  grave, 
He  with  bronzed  cheek  and  daring  step  doth 
rove  ; 
He  with  short  pang  and  slight 
Doth  turn  him  from  the  checkered  light 
Ofthefairmoon  through  his  own  forests  dancing, 
Where  music,  joy,  and  love 

Were  his  young  hours  entrancing  ; 
And  where  ambition's  thunder-claim 
Points  out  Ins  Ipt, 
Or  fitful  wealth  allures  to  roam, 
There  doth  he  make  his  home, 
Repining  not. 


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•^ 


It  is  not  thus  with  Woman.     The  far  halls, 

Though  ruinous  and  lone, 
Where  first  her  pleased   ear   drank 
mother's  tone  ; 
The  home  with  humble  walls, 
"Where  breathed  a  parent's  prayer  around  her 
bed  ; 
The  valley  where,  with  playmates  true, 
She  culled  the  strawberry,  bright  with  dew  ; 
The  bower  where  Lovelier  timid  footsteps  led; 
The  hearthstone  where  her  children  grew  ; 
The  damp  soil  where  she  cast 
The  flower-seeds  of  her  hope,  and  saw  them  bide 
the  blast,  — 
Affection  with  unfading  tint  recalls, 
Lingering  round  the  ivied  walls, 
Where  every  rose  hath  in  its  cup  a  bee, 

Making  fresh  honey  of  remembered  things, 
Each  rose  without  a  thorn,  each  bee  bereft  of 
stings.  lydia  h.  sigourney. 


MAN  — WOMAN. 


FROM    "DON   JUAN. 


"Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart ; 

'T  is  woman's  whole  existence.    Man  may  range 
The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mart, 

Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory,  offer  in  exchange 
Pride,  fame,  ambition,  to  fill  up  his  heart, 

And  few  there  are  whom  these  cannot  estrange  : 

Men  have  all  these  resources,  we  but  one,  — 

To  love  again,  and  be  again  undone." 

Byron. 


TO  A  SLEEPING   CHILD. 

Art  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth 
Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth  ? 
Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  heavenly  blue 
That  stray  along  thy  forehead  fair, 
Lost  mid  a  gleam  of  golden  hair  ? 
0,  can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a  being  doomed  to  death  ? 
Those  features  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent  ? 
Or  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 
The  phantom  of  a  blessed  dream  ? 
A  human  shape  I  feel  thou  art 
I  feel  it  at  my  beating  heart, 
Those  tremors  both  of  soul  and  sense 
Awoke  by  infant  innocence  ! 
Though  dear  the  forms  by  fancy  wove, 
We  love  them  with  a  transient  love  ; 
Thoughts  from  the  living  world  intrude 
Even  on  our  deepest  solitude  ; 


But,  lovely  child  !  thy  magic  stole 
At  once  into  my  inmost  soul, 
With  feelings  as  thy  beauty  fair, 
And  left  no  other  vision  there. 

To  me  thy  parents  are  unknown  ; 
Glad  would  they  be  their  child  to  own  ! 
And  well  they  must  have  loved  before, 
If  since  thy  birth  they  loved  not  more. 
Thou  art  a  branch  of  noble  stem, 
And  seeing  thee  I  figure  them. 
What  many  a  childless  one  would  give, 
If  thou  in  their  still  home  wouldst  live, 
Though  in  thy  face  no  family  dine 
Might  sweetly  say,  "This  babe  is  mine"  ! 
In  time  thou  wouldst  become  the  same 
As  their  own  child,  —  all  but  the  name  ! 
..... 

JOHN  WILSON. 


MOTHER  AND   CHILD. 

The  wind  blew  wide  the  casement,  and  within  — 

It  was  the  loveliest  picture  !  —  a  sweet  child 

Lay  in  its  mother's  arms,  and  drew  its  life, 

In  pauses,  from  the  fountain,  —  the  white  round 

Part  shaded  by  loose  tresses,  soft  and  dark, 

Concealing,  but  still  showing,  the  fair  realm 

Of  so  much  rapture,  as  green  shadowing  trees 

With  beauty  shroud  the  brooklet.    The  red  lips 

Were  parted,  and  the  cheek  upon  the  breast 

Lay  close,  and,  like  the  young  leaf  of  the  flower, 

Wore  the  same  color,  rich  and  warm  and  fresh:  — 

And  such  alone  are  beautiful.     Its  eye, 

A  full  blue  gem,  most  exquisitely  set, 

Looked  archly  on  its  world,  —  the  little  imp, 

As  if  it  knew  even  then  that  such  a  wreath 

Were  not  for  all ;  and  with  its  playful  hands 

It  drew  aside  the  robe  that  hid  its  realm, 

And  peeped  and  laughed  aloud,  and  so  it  laid 

Its  head  upon  the  shrine  of  such  pure  joys, 

And,  laughing,  slept.   And  while  it  slept,  the  tears 

Of  the  sweet  mother  fell  upon  its  cheek,  — 

Tears  such  as  fall  from  April  skies,  and  bring 

The  sunlight  after.     They  were  tears  of  joy  ; 

And  the  true  heart  of  that  young  mother  then 

Grew  lighter,  and  she  sang  unconsciously 

The  silliest  ballad-song  that  ever  yet 

Subdued  the  nursery's  voices,  and  brought  sleep 

To  fold  her  sabbath  wings  above  its  couch. 

William  Gilmore  Simms. 


FORTUNE. 

FRAGMENT    FROM    "  FANNY." 

But  Fortune,  like  some  others  of  her  sex, 
Delights  in  tantalizing  and  tormenting. 


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•POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


591 


ti 


">ne  day  we  feed  upon  their  smiles,  —  the  next 
Is  spent  in  swearing,  sorrowing,  and  repenting. 

Eve  never  walked  in  Paradise  more  pure 

Than  on  that  morn  when  Satan  played  the  devil 

"With  her  and  all  her  race.     A  lovesick  wooer 
Ne'er  asked  a  kinder  maiden,  or  more  civil, 

Than  Cleopatra  was  to  Antony 

The  day  she  left  him  on  the  Ionian  sea. 

The  serpent  —  loveliest  in  his  coiled  ring, 

With  eye  that  charms,  and  beauty  that  outvies 

The  tints  of  the  rainbow  —  bears  upon  his  sting 
The  deadliest  venom.     Ere  the  dolphin  dies 

Its  hues  are  brightest.     Like  an  infant's  breath 

Are  tropic  winds  before  the  voice  of  death 

Is  heard  upon  the  waters,  summoning 

The  midnight  earthquake  from  its  sleep  of  years 

To  do  its  task  of  woe.     The  clouds  that  fling 
The  lightning  brighten  ere  the  bolt  appears  ; 

The  pantings  of  the  warrior's  heart  are  proud 

Upon  that  battle-morn  whose  night-dews  wet  his 
shroud  ; 

The  sun  is  loveliest  as  he  sinks  to  rest ; 

The  leaves  of  Autumn  smile  when  fading  fast ; 

The  swan's  last  song  is  sweetest. 

fitz-Greene  Halleck. 


FORTUNE. 
enid's  song. 

Turx,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the 

proud  ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  through  sunshine,  storm, 

and  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or 
frown  ; 
"With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down  ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

Smile,  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands  ; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands  ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd  ; 

Tli v  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE   CUTS  OF   GOD. 

Winn  Cod  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  L'la-s  of  blessings  standing  by, 
Let  as  i-.iid  he)  pour  on  him  all  we  can  : 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

(  lontract  into  a  -pan. 


So  strength  first  made  a  way  ; 
Then  beauty  flowed,  then  wisdom,  honor,  pleasure : 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  his  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I  should  (said  he) 
Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature  : 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 

But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness  : 

Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 

If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast. 

George  Herbert. 


ENIGMA. 


THE    LETTER 


'T  was  whispered  in  heaven,  and  muttered  in  hell, 
And  echo  caught  faintly  the  sound  as  it  fell ; 
On  the  confines  of  earth  't  was  permitted  to  rest, 
And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  its  presence  confessed ; 
'T  was  seen  in  the  lightning,  and  heard  in  the 

thunder  ; 
'T  will  be   found   in   the  spheres,    when  riven 

asunder ; 
'T  was  given  to  man  with  his  earliest  breath, 
Assists  at  his  birth,  and  attends  him  in  death  ; 
Presides  o'er  his  happiness,  honor,  and  health, 
Is  the  prop  of  his  house,  and  the  end  of  his  wealth. 

It  begins  every  hope,  every  wish  it  must  bound, 

And    though    unassuming,    with    monarchs   is 

crowned. 

In  the  heaps  of  the  miser  't  is  hoarded  with  care, 

But  is  sure  to  be  lost  in  his  prodigal  heir. 

Without  it  the  soldier  and  sailor  may  roam, 

But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  expels  it  from  home  ! 

In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  he  found, 

Nor  e'er  in  the  whirlwind  of  passion  be  drowned. 

It  softens  the  heart  ;  and,  though  deaf  to  the  ear, 

It  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantly  hear. 

But  in  shade  let  it  rest,  like  a  delicate  flower,  — 

0,  breathe  on  it  softly  ;  it  dies  in  an  hour. 

Miss  Fanshawe. 


FATHER  LAND  AND  MOTHER  TONGUE. 

OlIR  Father  Land  !  and  wouldst  thou  know 
Why  we  should  call  it  Father  Land  ? 

It  is  that  Adam  here  below 

Was  made  of  earth  by  Nature's  hand. 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


And  he,  our  father  made  of  earth, 
Hath  peopled  earth  on  every  hand ; 

And  we,  in  memory  of  his  birth, 
Do  call  our  country  Father  Land. 

At  first  in  Eden's  bowers,  they  say, 

No  sound  of  speech  had  Adam  caught, 
But  whistled  like  a  bird  all  day,  — 

And  maybe  't  was  for  want  of  thought. 
But  Nature,  with  resistless  laws, 

Made  Adam  soon  surpass  the  birds  ; 
She  gave  him  lovely  Eve  because 

If  he  'd  a  wife  they  must  have  loorcls. 

And  so  the  native  land,  I  hold, 
By  male  descent  is  proudly  mine  ; 

The  language,  as  the  tale  hath  told, 
"Was  given  in  the  female  line. 

And  thus  we  see  on  either  hand 

We  name  our  blessings  whence  they've  sprung ; 

"We  call  our  country  Father  Land, 

"We  call  our  language  Mother  Tongue. 

Samuel  Lover. 


SMALL   BEGINNINGS. 

A  traveller   through   a  dusty   road   strewed 

acorns  on  the  lea  ; 
And  one  took  root  and  sprouted  up,  and  grew 

into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  shade,  at  evening  time,  to  breathe 

its  early  vows  ; 
And  age  was  pleased,  in  heats  of  noon,  to  bask 

beneath  its  boughs  ; 
The  dormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs,  the  birds 

sweet  music  bore  ; 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  place,  a  blessing  evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way  amid  the  grass 

and  fern, 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well,  where  weary 

men  might  turn  ; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care  a  ladle  at 

the  brink  ; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did,  but  judged 

that  toil  might  drink. 
He  passed  again,  and  lo  !  the  well,  by  summers 

never  dried, 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parching  tongues,  and 

saved  a  life  beside. 

A  dreamer  dropped  a  random  thought ;   't  was 

old,  and  yet  't  was  new  ; 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain,  but  strong  in  being 

true. 
It  shone  upon  a  genial  mind,  and  lo  !  its  light 

became 
A  lamp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray,  a  monitory  flame. 


The  thought  was  small  ;  its  issue  great  ;  a  watch- 
fire  on  the  hill  ; 

It  sheds  its  radiance  far  adown,  and  cheers  the 
valley  still,! 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd  that  thronged 

the  daily  mart, 
Let  fall  a  word  of  Hope  and  Love,  unstudied, 

from  the  heart ; 
A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown,  —  a  transitory 

breath, — 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust  ;   it  saved  a 

soul  from  death. 
0  germ  !  0  fount  !  0  word  of  love  !  0  thought 

at  random  cast ! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first,  but  mighty  at  the 

last.  Charles  Mackay. 


RAIN   ON   THE   ROOF. 

When  the  showery  vapors  gather  over  all  the 
starry  spheres, 

And  the  melancholy  darkness  gently  weeps  in 
rainy  tears, 

'T  is  a  joy  to  press  the  pillow  of  a  cottage  cham- 
ber bed, 

And  listen  to  the  patter  of  the  soft  rain  overhead. 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles  has  an  echo  in  the 

heart, 
And  a  thousand  dreary  fancies  into  busy  being 

start  ; 
And  a  thousand  recollections  weave  their  bright 

hues  into  woof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  patter  of  the  soft  rain  on  the  roof. 

There  in  fancy  comes  my  mother,  as  she  used  to 

years  agone, 
To  survey  the  infant  sleepers  ere  she  left  them 

till  the  dawn. 
I  can  see  her  bending  o'er  me,  as  I  listen  to  the 

strain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles  by  the  patter 

of  the  rain. 

Then  my  little  seraph  sister,  with  her  wings  and 

waving  hair, 
And  her  bright-eyed  cherub  brother,  —  a  serene, 

angelic  pair,  — 
Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow  with  their  praise 

or  mild  reproof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  soft  rain  on  the 

roof. 

And  another  comes  to  thrill  me  with  her  eyes' 

delicious  blue. 
I  forget,  as  gazing  on  her,  that  her  heart  was  all 

untrue  ; 


t& 


A     SUMMER     EVENING. 

"  Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below." 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


593 


I  remember  that  I  loved  her  as  I  ne'er  may  love 

again, 
And  my  heart's  quick  pulses  vibrate  to  the  patter 

of  the  rain. 

There  is  naught  in  art's  bravuras  that  can  work 
with  such  a  spell, 

In  the  spirit's  pure,  deep  fountains,  whence  the 
holy  passions  swell, 

As  that  melody  of  nature,  — that  subdued,  sub- 
duing strain, 

"Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles  by  the  patter 


of  the  rain. 


Coates  Kinney. 


THE   EVENING   CLOUD. 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, 

A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow  ; 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on 

O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated  slow  ! 

Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest ; 
While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to  blow 

Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul  ! 

To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 

Right  onwards  to  the  golden  gates  of  heaven, 

Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful  lies, 

And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 

John  Wilson. 


INSIGNIFICANT   EXISTENCE. 

THERE  are  a  number  of  us  creep 

Into  this  world,  to  eat  and  sleep  ; 

And  know  no  reason  why  we  're  born, 

But  only  to  consume  the  corn, 

Devour  the  cattle,  fowl,  and  fish, 

And  leave  behind  an  empty  dish. 

The  erows  ami  ravens  do  the  same, 

Unlucky  birds  of  hateful  name  ; 

Ravens  or  crows  might  fill  their  place, 

And  swallow  corn  and  cai 

Then  if  their  tombstone,  when  they  die, 

Be  n't  taught  to  Ratter  and  to  lie, 

Tli  sre  's  nothing  better  will  be  said 

Than  that  "they  'ye  eat  up  all  their  bread, 

Drunk  up  their  drink,  and  gone  to  bed." 

Isaac  watts. 


LIVING   WATERS. 

THERE  arc  some  hearts  like  wells,  green-mossed 
and  deep 

As  ever  Slimmer  saw  ; 


And  cool  their  water  is,  —  yea,  cool  and  sweet ; — 
But  you  must  come  to  draw. 

They  hoard  not,  yet  they  rest  in  calm  content, 
And  not  unsought  will  give  ; 

They  can  be  quiet  with  their  wealth  unspent, 
So  self-contained  they  live. 

And  there  are  some  like  springs,  that  bubbling 
burst 

To  follow  dusty  ways, 
And  run  with  offered  cup  to  quench  his  thirst 

Where  the  tired  traveller  strays  ; 
That  never  ask  the. meadows  if  they  want 

"What  is  their  joy  to  give  ;  — 
Unasked,  their  lives  to  other  life  they  grant, 

So  self-bestowed  they  live  ! 

And  One  is  like  the  ocean,  deep  and  wide, 

Wherein  all  waters  fall  ; 
That  girdles  the  broad  earth,  and  draws  the  tide, 

Feeding  and  bearing  all  ; 
That  broods   the   mists,  that  sends  the  clouds 
abroad, 

That  takes,  again  to  give  ;  — 

Even  the  great  and  loving  heart  of  God, 

"Whereby  all  love  doth  live. 

Caroline  spencer. 


FREEDOM   IN   DRESS. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast  ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed, — 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free,  — 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art ; 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

Ben  Jonson. 


A  SWEET  DISORDER    IN   THE  DRESS  — 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 
Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness  : 

A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 

Into  a  line  distraction  ; 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 

Inthralls  the  crimson  stomacher  ; 

A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 

Ribbons  to  Bow  confusedly  ; 

A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat ; 


-ff 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


-R- 


A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility,  — 
Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


CONTRADICTION. 


FROM        CONVERSATION. 


Ye  powers  who  rule  the  tongue,  if  such  there 

are, 

And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care, 

Preserve  me  from  the  thing  f  dread  and  hate, 

A  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate. 

The  clash  of  arguments  and  jar  of  words, 

Worse  than  the  mortal  blunt  of  rival  swords, 

Decide  no  question  with  their  tedious  length, 

For  opposition  gives  opinion  strength. 

Divert  the  champions  prodigal  of  breath  ; 

Ami  put  the  peaceably  disposed  to  death. 

0,  thwart  me  not,  Sir  Soph,  at  every  turn, 

Nor  carp  at  every  flaw  you  may  discern  ! 

Though  syllogisms  hang  not  on  my  tongue, 

I  am  not  surely  always  in  the  wrong  ; 

'T  is  hard  if  all  is  false  that  I  advance, 

A  fool  must  now  and  then  be  right  by  chance. 

Not  that  all  freedom  of  dissent  I  blame  ; 

No,  — there  I  grant  the  privilege  I  claim. 

A  disputable  point  is  no  man's  ground  ; 

Rove  wh^re  you  please,  't  is  common  all  around. 

Discourse  may  want  an  animated  No 

To  brush  the  surface,  and  to  make  it  flow ; 

But  still  remember,  if  you  mean  to  please, 

To  press  your  point  with  modesty  and  ease. 

The  mark  at  which  my  juster  aim  I  take, 

Is  contradiction  for  its  own  dear  sake. 

Set  your  opinion  at  whatever  pitch, 

Knots  and  impediments  make  something  hitch  ; 

Adopt  his  own,  't  is  equally  in  vain, 

Your  thread  of  argument  is  snapped  again. 

The  wrangler,  rather  than  accord  with  you, 

Will  judge  himself  deceived  and  prove  it  too. 

Vociferated  logic  kills  me  quite, 

A  noisy  man  is  always  in  the  right. 

I  twirl  my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair, 

Fix  on  the  wainscot  a  distressful  stare, 

And,  when  I  hope,  his  blunders  are  all  out, 

Reply  discreetly,  — To  be  sure  —  no  doubt  ! 

William  Covvper. 


OATHS. 


FROM        CONVERSATION. 


Oaths  terminate,  as  Paul  observes,  all  strife,  - 
Some  men  have  surely  then  a  peaceful  life. 
Whatever  subject  occupy  discourse, 
The  feats  of  Vestris,  or  the  naval  force, 


Asseveration  blustering  in  your  face 
Makes  contradiction  such  a  hopeless  case ; 
In  every  tale  they  tell,  or  false  or  true, 
Well  known,  or  such  as  no  man  ever  knew, 
They  fix  attention,  heedless  of  your  pain, 
With  oaths  like  rivets  forced  into  the  brain  ; 
And  even  when  sober  truth  prevails  throughout, 
They  swear  it,  till  affirmance  breeds  a  doubt. 
A  Persian,  humble  servant  of  the  tun, 
Who,  though  devou  ,  yet  bigotry  had  none, 
Hearing  a  lawyer,  grave  in  his  address, 
With  adjurations  every  word  impress, 
Supposed  the  man  a  bishop,  or,  at  least, 
God's  name  so  much  upon  Ids  lips,  a  priest ; 
Bowed  at  the  close  with  all  his  graceful  airs, 
And  begged  an  interest  in  his  frequent  prayers. 

WlL-lAM  COWPER. 


FAME. 


FROM    THE    'ESSAY   ON    MAN. 


What's  fame  ? — afancied  life  in  others' breath, 
A  thing  beyond  us,  e'en  before  our  death. 
Just  what  you  hear,  you  have,  and  what 's  un- 
known 
The  same  (my  lord)  if  Tully's,  or  your  own. 
All  that  we  feel  of  it  begins  and  ends 
In  the  small  circle  of  our  foes  or  friends  ; 
To  all  beside  as  much  an  empty  shade 
A  Eugene  living  as  a  Caesar  dead  ; 
Alike  or  when  or  where  they  shone  or  shine, 
Or  on  the  Rubicon,  or  on  the  Rhine. 
A  wit  's  a  feather,  and  a  chief  a  rod  ; 
An  honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of  God. 
Fame  but  from  death  a  villain's  name  can  save, 
As  justice  tears  his  body  from  the  grave  ; 
When  what  to  oblivion  better  were  resigned 
Is  hung  on  high,  to  poison  half  mankind. 
All  fame  is  foreign,  but  of  true  desert  ; 
Plays  round  the  head,  but  comes  not  to  the  heart: 
One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers  and  of  loud  huzzas  ; 
And  more  true  joy  Marcellus  exiled  feels 
Than  Caesar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels. 

ALEXANDER   POPE. 


GREATNESS. 


FROM    THE    "ESSAY    ON    MAN 


Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise  ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies. 
Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  difference  made, 
One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in  brocade  ; 
The  cobbler  aproned,  and  the  parson  gowned, 
The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch  crowned. 


& 


■ff 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


5lJ5 


"What  differ  more  (you  cry)  than  crown  and 

cowl  ?  " 
I  '11  tell  you,  friend  !  a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 
You  '11  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts  the  monk, 
Or,  cobbler-like,  the  parson  will  be  drunk, 
"Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow  ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 

Stuck  o'er  with  titles,  and  hung  round  with 
strings, 
That  thou  mayst  be  by  kings,  or  whores  of  kings  ; 
Boast  the  pure  blood  of  an  illustrious  race, 
In  quiet  flow  from  Lucrece  to  Lucrece  ; 
But  by  your  fathers'  worth  if  yours  you  rate, 
Count  me  those  only  who  were  good  and  great. 
Go  !  if  your  ancient  but  ignoble  blood 
Has  crept  through  scoundrels   ever    since   the 

flood. 
Go  !  and  pretend  your  family  is  young, 
Nor  own  your  fathers  have  been  fools  so  long. 
"What  can  ennoble  sots  or  slaves  or  cowards  ? 
Alas  !  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards. 
Look  next  on  greatness  !  say  where  greatness 
lies? 
"  "Where,  but  among  the  heroes  and  the  wise  ?  " 
Heroes  are  much  the  same,  the  point  's  agreed, 
From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede  ; 
The  whole  strange  purpose  of  their  lives,  to  find 
Or  make  an  enemy  of  all  mankind  ! 
Not  one  looks  backward,  onward  still  he  goes, 
Yet  ne'er  looks  forward  farther  than  his  nose. 
No  less  alike  the  politic  and  wise  ; 
All  sly  slow  things,  with  circumspective  eyes  : 
Men  in  their  loose  unguarded  hours  they  take, 
Not  that  themselves  are  wise,  but  others  weak. 
But  grant  that  those   can   conquer,   these    can 

cheat ; 
'T  is  phrase  absurd  to  call  a  villain  great  : 
Who  wickedly  is  wise,  or  madly  brave, 
Is  but  the  more  a  fool,  the  more  a  knave. 
Who  noble  ends  by  noble  means  obtains, 
Or,  failing,  smiles  in  exile  or  in  chains, 
Like  good  Aurelius  let  him  reign,  or  bleed 
Like  Socrates,  thai  man  is  greal  indeed. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


REASON   AND    INSTINCT. 

FROM    THE   "  ESSAY   ON   MAN." 

Whether  with  reason  or  with  instinct  blest, 
Know  all  enjoy  that  power  which  suits  them  best ; 
To  bliss  alike  by  that  direction  tend, 
And  find  the  means  proportioned  to  their  end. 
Say,  where  full  instinct  is  the  unerring  guide, 
What  pope  or  council  can  they  need  beside  ? 
Reason,  however  able,  cool  at  best, 
Cares  not  for  service,  or  but  serves  when  i>rest, 
Stays  till  we  call,  and  then  not  often  near ; 
But  honest  instinct  comes  a  volunteer, 
Sure  never  to  o'ershoot,  but  just  to  hit ; 
While  still  too  wide  or  short  is  human  wit, 
Sure  by  quick  nature  happiness  to  gain, 
Which  heavier  reason  labors  at  in  vain. 
This  too  serves  always,  reason  never  long  ; 
One  must  go  right,  the  other  may  go  wrong. 
See  then  the  acting  and  comparing  powers 
One  in  their  nature,  which  are  two  in  ours  ; 
And  reason  raise  o'er  instinct  as  you  can, 
In  this  't  is  God  directs,  in  that  't  is  man. 

Who  taught  the  nations  of  the  field  and  wood 
To  shun  their  poison  and  to  choose  their  food  ? 
Prescient,  the  tides  or  tempests  to  withstand, 
Build  on  the  wave,  or  arch  beneath  the  sand  ? 
Who  made  the  spider  parallels  design, 
Sure  as  De  Moivre,  without  rule  or  line  ? 
Who  bid  the  stork,  Columbus-like,  explore 
Heavens  not  his  own,  and  worlds  unknown  before  ? 
Who  calls  the  council,  states  the  certain  day, 
Who  forms  the  phalanx,  and  who  points  the  way  ? 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


OPPOiriTNITY. 

FROM    "JULIUS   C/T.SAR." 

Tin  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune  ; 
( (mitt  d,  .ill  the  voyage  of  their  life 
Is  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  miseries. 

On  BUCh  a   full  sea  ale  \\r  now  alloat    ; 

And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  Berves, 

(  ft  lose  our  vi-nlu 

SJIAKESPEARE. 


ABUSE   OF   AUTHORITY. 

FROM    "MEASURE   FOR    MEASURE." 

Isabel.  Oh  !  it  is  excellent 

To  have  a  giant's  strength  ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 
Could  great  men  thunder 

As  .love  himself  docs,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quid  ; 
For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 
Would  n>e  his  heaven  for  thunder,  — 
Nothing  but  thunder.     Merciful  Heaven  ! 
Thou  rather,  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 

Split's!   the  unwedgeahle  and  gnarled  oak, 
Than  the  soft  myrtle  :  but  man,  proud  man  ! 
Dresl  in  a  little  brief  authority,  — 
Most  [gnoranl  ofwhal  he  's  most  assured, 
His  glassy  essence,  —like  an  angry  ape, 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven, 
Aamake  the  angels  weep  ;  who.  with  our  spleens, 
Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


k 


w 


596 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   EEFLECTION. 


■a 


THE   SEASIDE   WELL. 

'•  Waters  flowed  over  mine  head ;   then  I  said,  I  am  cut  ofT." 
—  Lam.  iii.  54. 

One  day  I  wandered  where  the  salt  sea-tide 

Backward  had  drawn  its  wave, 
And  found  a  spring  as  sweet  as  e'er  hillside 

To  wild  flowers  gave. 
Freshly  it  sparkled  in  the  sun's  bright  look, 

And  'mid  its  pebbles  strayed, 
As  if  it' thought  to  join  a  happy  brook 

In  some  green  glade. 

But  soon  the  heavy  sea's  resistless  swell 

Came  rolling  in  once  more  ; 
Spreading  its  bitter  o'er  the  clear  sweet  well 

And  pebbled  shore. 
Like  a  fair  star  thick  buried  in  a  cloud, 

Or  life  in  the  grave's  gloom, 
The  well,  enwrapped  in  a  deep  watery  shroud, 

Sunk  to  its  tomb. 

As  one  who  by  the  beach  roams  far  and  wide, 

Remnant  of  wreck  to  save, 
Again  I  wandered  when  the  salt  sea-tide 

Withdrew  its  wave. 
And  there,  unchanged,  no  taint  in  all  its  sweet, 

No  anger  in  its  tone, 
Still  as  it  thought  some  happy  brook  to  meet, 

The  spring  flowed  on. 

While  waves  of  bitterness  rolled  o'er  its  head, 

Its  heart  had  folded  deep 
Within  itself,  and  quiet  fancies  led, 

As  in  a  sleep. 
Till  when  the  ocean  loosed  his  heavy  chain, 

And  gave  it  back  to  day, 
Calmly  it  turned  to  its  own  life  again 

And  gentle  way. 

Happy,  I  thought,  that  which  can  draw  its  life 

Deep  from  the  nether  springs, 
Safe  'neath  the  pressure,  tranquil  'mid  the  strife 

Of  surface  things. 
Safe  —  for  the  sources  of  the  nether  springs 

Up  in  the  far  hills  lie  ; 
Calm  — for    the  life  its   power   and   freshness 
brings 

Down  from  the  sky. 

So,  should  temptations  threaten,  and  should  sin 

Roll  in  its  whelming  flood, 
Make  strong  the  fountain  of  thy  grace  within 

My  soul,  0  God  ! 
If  bitter  scorn,    and  looks,    once  kind,   grown 
strange, 
With  crushing  dullness  fall, 
From  secret  wells  let  sweetness  rise,  nor  change 
my  heart  to  gall ! 


When  sore  thy  hand  doth  press,  and  waves  of 
thine 

Afflict  me  like  a  sea,  — 
Deep  calling  deep,  —  infuse  from  source  divine 

Thy  peace  in  me  ! 
And  when  death's  tide,  as  with  a  brimful  cup, 

Over  my  soul  doth  pour, 
Let  hope  survive,— a  well  that  spnngeth  up 

Fore  verm  ore  ! 

Above  my  head  the  waves  may  come  and  go, 

Long  brood  the  deluge  dire,. 
But  life  lies  hidden  in  the  depths  below 

Till  waves  retire,  — 
Till  death,  that  reigns  with  overflowing  flood, 

At  length  withdraw  its  sway, 
And  life  rise  sparkling  in  the  sight  of  God 

And  endless  day. 

ANONYMOUS. 


SCANDAL. 

FROM    THE    "  PROLOGUE   TO   THE   SATIRES." 

Cursed  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow, 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my  foe, 
Give  virtue  scandal,  innocence  a  fear, 
Or  from  the  soft-eyed  virgin  steal  a  tear  ! 
But  he  who  hurts  a  harmless  neighbor's  peace, 
Insults  fallen  worth,  or  beauty  in  distress, 
AVho  loves  a  lie,  lame  slander  helps  about, 
Who  writes  a  libel,  or  who  copies  out ; 
That  fop  whose  pride  affects  a  patron's  name, 
Yet  absent  wounds  an  author's  honest  fame  : 
Who  can  your  meiit  selfishly  approve, 
And  show  the  sense  of  it  without  the  love  ; 
Who  has  the  vanity  to  call  you  friend, 
Yet  wants  the  honor,  injured,  to  defend  ; 
Who  tells  whate'er  you  think,  whate'er  you  say, 
And,  if  he  lie  not,  must  at  least  betray  ; 
Who  to  the  Dean  and  silver  bell  can  swear, 
And  sees  at  Canons  what  was  never  there  ; 
Who  reads  but  with  a  lust  to  misapply, 
Make  satire  a  lampoon,  and  fiction  lie  ; 
A  lash  like  mine  no  honest  man  shall  dread, 
But  all  such  babbling  blockheads  in  his  stead. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


PROFUSION. 

TIMON. 

FROM    "MORAL  ESSAYS." 

At  Timon's  villa  let  us  pass  a  day, 
Where   all   cry  out,    "What   sums  are  thrown 
away  ! " 


rh 


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POKMS   OF   SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


597 


So  proud,  so  grand  ;  of  that  stupendous  air, 
Soft  and  agreeable  come  never  there. 
Greatness,  with  Timon,  dwells  in  such  a  draught 
As  brings  all  Brobdingnag  before  your  thought. 
To  compass  this,  his  building  is  a  town, 
His  pond  an  ocean,  his  parterre  a  down  : 
Who  but  must  laugh,  the  master  when  he  sees, 
A  puny  insect,  shivering  at  a  breeze  ! 
Lo,  what  huge  heaps  of  littleness  around  \ 
The  whole,  a  labored  quarry  above  ground. 
Two  Cupids  squirt  before  :  a  lake  behind 
Improves  the  keenness  of  the  northern  wind. 
His  gardens  next  your  admiration  call, 
On  every  side  you  look,  behold  the  wall  ! 
No  pleasing  intricacies  intervene, 
No  artful  wildness  to  perplex  the  scene  ; 
Grove  nods  at  grove,  each  alley  has  a  brother, 
And  half  the  platform  just  rellects  the  other. 
The  suffering  eye  inverted  nature  sees, 
Trees  cut  to  statues,  statues  thick  as  trees  ; 
With  here  a  fountain,  never  to  be  played  ; 
And  there  a  summer-house,  that  knows  no  shade ; 
Here  Amphitrite  sails  through  myrtle  bowers  ; 
There  gladiators  fight,  or  die  in  flowers  ; 
Unwatered  see  the  drooping  sea-horse  mourn, 
And  swallows  roost  in  Nilus'  dusty  urn. 
My  lord  advances  with  majestic  mien, 
Smit  with  the  mighty  pleasure,  to  be  seen  ; 
But  soft  —  by  regular  approach  —  not  yet  — 
First  through  the  length  of  yon  hot  terrace  sweat ; 
And  when  up  ten  steep  slopes  you've  dragged 

your  thighs, 
Just  at  his  study  door  he'll  bless  your  eyes. 

His  study  !  with  what  authors  is  it  stored  ? 
In  books,  not  authors,  curious  is  my  lord  ; 
To  all  their  dated  backs  he  turns  you  round  ; 
These  Aldus  printed,  those  Du  Sueil  has  bound  ! 
Lo,  some  are  vellum,  and  the  rest  as  good 
For  all  his  lordship  knows,  but  they  are  wood. 
For  Locke  or  Milton  't  is  in  vain  to  look, 
These  shelves  admit  not  any  modern  book. 

And  now  the  chapel's  silver  bell  you  hear, 
That  summons  you  to  all  the  pride  of  prayer  : 
Light  quirks  of  music,  broken  and  uneven, 
Make  the  soul  dance  upon  a  jig  to  heaven. 
On  painted  ceilings  you  devoutly  stare, 
Where  sprawl  the  saints  of  Verrio  or  Laguerre, 
On  gilded  clouds  in  fair  expansion  lie, 
Ami  bring  all  paradise  before  your  eye. 
To  rest  the  cushion  and  soft  dean  invite, 
Who  never  mentions  hell  to  ears  polite. 

P.ut  hark  '  the  chiming  clocks  to  dinner  call  ; 
A  hundred  footsteps  scrape  the  marble  hall : 
Tlie  rich  buffel  well-colored  serpents  grace, 
And  gaping  Tritons  spue  to  wash  your  face. 
Is  this  a  dinner  j  this  a  genial  room  < 
No,  't  is  a  temple,  ami  a  hecatomb. 
A    olemu  sacrifice,  performed  in  state, 


You  drink  by  measure,  and  to  minutes  eat. 
So  quick  retires  each  flying  course,  you  'd  swear 
Sancho's  dread  doctor  and  his  wand  were  there. 
Between  each  act  the  trembling  salvers  ring, 
From  soup  to  sweet  wine,  and  God  bless  the  king. 
In  plenty  starving,  tantalized  in  state, 
And  complaisantly  helped  to  all  I  hate, 
Treated,  caressed,  and  tired,  I  take  my  leave. 
Sick  of  his  civil  pride  from  morn  to  eve  ; 
I  curse  such  lavish  cost,  and  little  skill, 
And  swear  no  day  was  ever  passed  so  ill. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


THE   WOUNDED   STAG. 


'AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


Duke  S.    Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  veni- 
son ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools, 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gored. 

1  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banished  you. 
To-day  my  lord  of  Amiens  and  myself, 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
I  Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
■  Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood  : 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequestered  stag, 
That  from  the  hunters'  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt, 
Did  come  to  languish  ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord, 
The  wretched  animal  heaved  forth  such  groans, 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting  ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase  ;  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extreniest  verge  of  the  swift  brook, 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1   Loud.  0  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 

First,  for  his  weeping  into  the  needless  stream  ; 
"  Poordeer,"  quoth  he,  "  thoumak'sl  a  testament 
As  wordlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much  "  :  then  being  there 
alone, 

Left  and  abandoned  of  his  velvet  friends  ; 
""Tisright,"  quoth  he  ;  "thus  misery. doth  part 
The  flux  of  company  "  :  anon,  a  careless  herd, 
Full  of  tin'  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 

Ami    never  stays   to  greet   him;    "Ay,"  quoth 

Jaques, 
"Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens  ; 
T  is  just  the  fashion  :  wherefore  do  you  look 


a 


598 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


■a 


Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ?" 

Thus  most  invectively  he  piereeth  through 

The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court, 

Yea,  and  of  this  our  life  ;  swearing  that  we 

Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what 's  worse, 

To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up, 

In  then-  assigned  and  native  dwelling-place. 

Shakespeare. 


HUMANITY. 

FROM    "THE   WINTER   WALK    AT    NOON." 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 

(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine 

sense, 

Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 

"Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 

An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 

That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path  ; 

But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned, 

"Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 

The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight, 

And  charged  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 

A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  the  alcove, 

The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die  : 

A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 

Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 

And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air, 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field  : 

There  they  are  privileged  ;  and  he  that  hunts 

Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong, 

Disturbs  the  economy  of  Nature's  realm, 

Who,  when  she  formed,  designed  them  an  abode 

The  sum  is  this  :   If  man's  convenience,  health, 

Or  safety  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 

Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 

Else  they  are  all  —  the  meanest  things  that  are  — 

As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 

Who  in  his  sovereign  wisdom  made  them  all. 

Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 

To  love  it  too. 

William  Cowper. 


OF   CRUELTY   TO   ANIMALS. 

Shame  upon  thee,  savage  monarch-man,  proud 

monopolist  of  reason  ; 
Shame  upon  creation'slord,  the  fierce  ensanguined 

de.spot  : 
"What,  man  '  are  there  not  enough,  hunger  and 

diseases  and  fatigue,  — 
And  yet  must  thy  goad  or  thy  thong  add  another 

sorrow  to  existence  ? 
What  !  art  thou  not  content  thy  sin  hath  dragged 

down  suffering  and  death 


On  the  poor  dumb  servants  of  thy  comfort,  and 

yet  must  thou  rack  them  with  thy  spite  ? 
The  prodigal  heir  of  creation  hath  gambled  away 

his  all,  — 
Shall  he  add  torment  to  the  bondage  that  isgalling 

his  forfeit  serfs  ? 
The  leader  in  nature's  paean  himself  hath  marred 

her  psaltery, 
Shall  he  multiply  the  din  of  discord  by  over- 
straining all  the  strings  ? 
The  rebel  hath  fortified  his  stronghold,  shutting 

in  his  vassals  with  him,  — 
Shall  he  aggravate  the  woes  of  the  besieged  by 

oppression  from  within  ? 
Thou  twice-deformed  image  of  thy  Maker,  thou 

hateful  representative  of  Love, 
For  very  shame  be  merciful,  be  kind  unto  the 

creatures  thou  hast  ruined  ; 
Earth  and  hermillion  tribes  are  cursed  for  thy  sake, 
Earth  and  her  million  tribes  still  writhe  beneath 

thy  cruelty  : 
Liveth  there  but  one  among  the  million  that  shall 

not  bear  witness  against  thee, 
A  pensioner  of  land  or  air  or  sea  that  hath  not 

whereof  it  will  accuse  thee  ? 
From  the  elephant  toiling  at  a  launch,   to  the 

shrew-mouse  in  the  harvest-field, 
From  the  whale  which  the  harpooner  hath  stricken, 

to  the  minnow  caught  upon  a  pin, 
From  the  albatross  wearied  in  its  flight,  to  the 

wren  in  her  covered  nest, 
From  the  death-moth  and  lace-winged  dragon-fly, 

to  the  lady-bird  and  the  gnat, 
The  verdict  of  all  things  is  unanimous,  finding 

their  master  cruel  : 
The  dog,  thy  humble  friend,  thy  trusting,  honest 

friend  ; 
The  ass,  thine  uncomplaining  slave,  drudging 

from  morn  to  even  ; 
The  lamb,  and  the  timorous  hare,  and  the  labor- 
ing ox  at  plough  ; 
The  speckled  trout  basking  in  the  shallow,  and 

the  partridge  gleaming  in  the  stubble, 
And  the  stag  at  bay,  and  the  worm  in  thy  path, 

and  the  wild  bird  pining  in  captivity, 
And  all  things  that  minister  alike  to  thy  life  and 

thy  comfort  and  thy  pride, 
Testify  with  one  sad  voice  that  man  is  a  cruel 

master. 

Verily,  they  are  all  thine  :    freely  mayst    thou 

serve  thee  of  them  all  : 
They  are  thine  by  gift  for  thy  needs,  to  be  used 

in  all  gratitude  and  kindness  ; 
Gratitude  to  their  God  and  thine,  —  their  Father 

and  thy  Father, 
Kindness  to  them  who  toil  for  thee,  and  help 

thee  with  their  all  : 


-ff 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


599 


ft 


For  meat,  but  not  by  wantonness  of  slaying  :  for 

burden,  but  with  limits  of  humanity  ; 
For  luxury,  but  not  through  torture  :  for  draught, 

but  according  to  the  strength  : 
For  a  dog  cannot  plead  his  own  right,  nor  render 

a  reason  for  exemption, 
Nor  give  a  soft  answer  unto  wrath,  to  turn  aside 

the  undeserved  lash  ; 
The  galled  ox  cannot  complain,  nor  supplicate  a 

moment's  respite  ; 
The  spent  horse  hideth  his  distress,  till  he  panteth 

out  his  spirit  at  the  goal ; 
Also,  in  the  winter  of  life,  when  worn  by  constant 

toil, 
If  ingratitude  forget  his  services,  he  cannot  bring 

them  to  remembrance  ; 
Behold,  he  is  faint  with  hunger ;  the  big  tear 

standeth  in  his  eye  ; 
His  skin  is  sore  with  stripes,  and  he  tottereth 

beneath  his  burden  ; 
His  limbs  are  stiff  with  age,  his  sinews  have  lost 

their  vigor, 
And  pain  is  stamped  upon   his  face,  while  he 

wrestleth  unequally  with  toil  ; 
Yet  once  more  mutely  and  meekly  endureth  he 

the  crashing  blow  ; 
That  straggle  hath  cracked  his  heart-strings,  — 

the  generous  brute  is  dead  ! 
Liveth  there  no  advocate  for  him  ?  no  judge  to 

avenge  his  wrongs? 
No  voice  that  shall  be  heard  in  his  defence  ?  no 

sentence  to  be  passed  on  his  oppressor  ? 
Yea,  the  sad  eye  of  the  tortured  pleadeth  patheti- 
cally for  him  ; 
Yea,  all  the  justice  in  heaven  is  roused  in  indig- 
nation at  his  woes  ; 
Yea,  all  the  pity  upon  earth  shall  call  down  a 

curse  upon  the  cruel  ; 
Yea,  the  burning  malice  of  the  wicked  is  their 

own  exceeding  punishment. 
The  Angel  of  Mercy  stoppeth  not  to  comfort,  but 

passeth  by  on  the  other  side, 
And  hath  no  tear  to  shed,  when  a  cruel  man  is 

damned. 

MARTIN   FARQUHAR  TUPPER. 


rLEA  FOR  Tin:   ANIMALS. 

FROM    "THE   SEASONS." 

....  Ensanguined  man 
Is  now  become  the  lion  of  the  plain, 
Ami  worse.    The  wolf,  who  from  the  nightly  fold 
Fierce  drags  the  bleating  prey,  neei  drunk  lei 

milk. 
Nor  wore  hei  warming  fleece  ;  nor  lias  the  steer, 
At  whose  strong  chest  the  deadly  tiger  hangs, 


E'er  ploughed  for  him.      They  too  are  tempered 

high, 
With  hunger  stung  and  wild  necessity  ; 
Nor  lodges  pity  in  their  shaggy  breast. 
But  man,  whom  Nature  formed  of  milder  clay, 
With  every  kind  emotion  in  his  heart, 
And  taught  alone  to  weep,  —  while  from  her  lap 
She  pours  ten  thousand  delicacies,  herbs, 
And  fruits  as  numerous  as  the  drops  of  rain 
Or  beams  that  gave  them  birth,  —  shall  he,  fair 

form  ! 
Who  wears  sweet  smiles,  and  looks  erect  on  heaven, 
E'er  stoop  to  mingle  with  the  prowling  herd, 
And  dip  his  tongue  in  gore  ?     The  beast  of  prey, 
Blood-stained,   deserves  to  bleed  ;  but  you,    ye 

flocks, 
What  have  ye  done  ?  ye  peaceful  people,  what, 
To  merit  death  ?  you  who  have  given  us  milk 
In  luscious  streams,  and  lent  us  your  own  coat 
Against  the  winter's  cold  ?     And  the  plain  ox, 
That  harmless,  honest,  guileless  animal, 
In  what  has  he  offended  ?  he  whose  toil, 
Patient  and  ever-ready,  clothes  the  land 
With  all  the  pomp  of  harvest,  — shall  he  bleed, 
And  struggling  groan  beneath  the  cruel  hand, 
Even  of  the  clown  he  feeds  ?  and  that,  perhaps, 
To  swell  the  riot  of  the  autumnal  feast, 
Won  by  his  labor  ? 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


DUELLING. 


CONVERSATION. 


The  point  of  honor  has  been  deemed  of  use, 
To  teach  good  manners,  and  to  curb  abuse  ; 
Admit  it  true,  the  consequence  is  clear, 
Our  polished  manners  are  a  mask  we  wear, 
And,  at  the  bottom,  barbarous  still  and  rude, 
We  are  restrained,  indeed,  but  not  subdued. 
The  very  remedy,  however  sure, 
Springs  from  the  mischief  it  intends  to  cure, 
And  savage  in  its  principle  appears, 
Tried,  as  it  should  be,  by  the  fruit  it  bears. 
'Tis  hard,  indeed,  if  nothing  will  defend 
Mankind  from  quarrels  but  their  fatal  end  ; 
That  now  and  then  a  hero  must  decease, 
That  the  surviving  world  may  live  in  peace. 
Perhaps  at  last  close  scrutiny  may  show 
The  practice  dastardly  and  mean  and  low  ; 
That  men  engage  in  it  compelled  by  force. 
And  fear,  not  courage,  is  its  proper  source  ; 
The  fear  of  tyrant  custom,  and  the  fear 
best  fops  should  censure  us,  ami  fools  should  sneer  ; 
A.1   least,   t"  trample  mi  our  Maker's  laws, 
And  hazard  lite  lor  any  or  no  cans", 
To  rush  into  a  Rxed  eternal  state 
( tut  of  the  very  Ilames  of  rage  and  hate, 


& 


cfr 


GOO 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


Or  send  another  shivering  to  the  bar 
With  all  the  guilt  of  such  unnatural  war, 
Whatever  Use  may  urge,  or  Honor  plead, 
On  Reason's  verdict  is  a  madman's  deed. 
Am  I  to  set  my  life  upon  a  throw 
Because  a  bear  is  rude  and  surly  ?  No,  — 
A  moral,  sensible,  and  well-bred  man 
Will  not  affront  me  ;  and  no  other  can. 
Were  I  empowered  to  regulate  the  lists, 
They  should  encounter  with  well-loaded  fists  ; 
A  Trojan  combat  would  be  something  new, 
Let  Dares  beat  Entcllus  black  and  blue  ; 
Then  each  might  show,  to  his  admiring  friends, 
In  honorable  bumps  his  rich  amends, 
And  carry,  in  contusions  of  his  skull, 
A  satisfactory  .receipt  in  full. 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 


GOLD. 


gold  ! 


Gold  !  gold  !  gold ! 

Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 

Molten,  graven,  hammered  and  rolled  ; 

Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold  ; 

Hoarded,  bartered,  bought,  and  sold, 

Stolen,  borrowed,  squandered,  doled  : 

Spurned  by  the  young,  but  hugged  by  the  old 

To  the  very  verge  of  the  churchyard  mould ; 

Price  of  many  a  crime  untold  : 

Gold  !  gold  !  gold  !  gold  ! 

Good  or  bad  a  thousand-fold  ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary,  — 
To  save, —  to  ruin,  —  to  curse,— to  bless, — 
As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 
Now  stamped  with  the  image  of  good  Queen  Bess, 

And  now  of  a  Bloody  Mary. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


LAW. 


Laws,  as  we  read  in  ancient  sages, 

Have  been  like  cobwebs  in  all  ages. 

Cobwebs  for  little  tlies  are  spread, 

And  laws  for  little  folks  are  made  ; 

But  if  an  insect  of  renown, 

Hornet  or  beetle,  wasp  or  drone, 

Be  caught  in  quest  of  sport  or  plunder, 

The  flimsy  fetter  flies  in  sunder. 

James  beattie. 


h 


QUACK   MEDICINES. 

FROM    "  THE    BOROUGH." 

But  now  our  Quacks  are  gamesters,  and  they 
play 
With  craft  and  skill  to  ruin  and  betray  ; 


With  monstrous  promise  they  delude  the  mind, 
And  thrive  on  all  that  tortures  human-kind. 

Void  of  all  honor,  avaricious,  rash, 
The  daring  tribe  compound  their  boasted  trash,  — 
Tincture  or  syrup,  lotion,  drop  or  pill ; 
All  tempt  the  sick  to  trust  the  lying  bill ; 
And  twenty  names  of  cobblers  turned  to  squires 
Aid  the  bold  language  of  these  blushless  liars. 
There  are  among  them  those  who  cannot  read, 
And  yet  they  '11  buy  a  patent,  and  succeed  ; 
Will  dare  to  promise  dying  sufferers  aid, 
For  who,  when  dead,  can  threaten  or  upbraid  ? 
With  cruel  avarice  still  they  recommend 
More  draughts,  more  syrup,  to  the  journey's  end. 
"  I  feel  it  not."  —  "Then  take  it  every  hour." 
"  It  makes  me  worse."  —  "  Why,  then  it  shows 

its  power.'- 
"  I  fear  to  die."  —  "  Let  not  your  spirits  sink, 
You  're  always  safe  while  you  believe  and  drink." 

How  strange  to  add,  in  this  nefarious  trade, 
That  men  of  parts  are  dupes  by  dunces  made  : 
That  creatures   nature  meant  should  clean  our 

streets 
Have  purchased  lands  and  mansions,  parks  and 

seats  : 
Wretches  with  conscience  so  obtuse,  they  leave 
Their  untaught  sons  their  parents  to  deceive  ; 
And  when  they  're  laid  upon  their  dying  bed, 
No  thought  of  murder  comes  into  their  head  ; 

And  then  in  many  a  paper  through  the  year, 
Must  cures  and  cases,  oaths  and  proofs,  appear  ; 
Men  snatched  from  graves  as  they  were  dropping 

in, 
Their   lungs   coughed  up,  their   bones   pierced 

through  their  skin  ; 
Their  liver  all  one  scirrhus,  and  the  frame 
Poisoned  with  evils  which  they  dare  not  name  ; 
Men  who  spent  all  upon  physicians'  fees, 
Who  never  slept,  nor  had  a  moment's  ease, 
Are  now  as  roaches  sound,  and  all  as  brisk  as 

bees. 

Troubled  with  something  in  your  bile  or  blood, 
You  think  your  doctor  does  you  little  good  ; 
And,  grown  impatient,  you  require  in  haste 
The  nervous  cordial,  nor  dislike  the  taste  ; 
It  comforts,  heals,  and  strengthens  ;  nay,  you 

think 
It  makes  you  better  every  time  you  drink  ; 
Who  tipples  brandy  will  some  comfort  feel, 
But  will  he  to  the  medicine  set  his  seal  ? 

No  class  escapes  them  —  from  the  poor  man's 

pay 

The  nostrum  takes  no  trifling  part  away  ; 

See  !  those  square  patent  bottles  from  the  shop 

Now  decoration  to  the  cupboard's  top  ; 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


---a 

G01 


And  there  a  favorite  hoard  you  '11  find  within, 
Companions  meet  !  the  julep  and  the  gin. 

Suppose  the  case  surpasses  human  skill, 
There  comes  a  quack  to  Hatter  weakness  still ; 
"What  greater  evil  can  a  flatterer  do, 
Than  from  himself  to  take  the  sufferer's  view  ? 
To    turn  from   sacred   thoughts   his    reasoning 

powers, 
And  rob  a  sinner  of  his  dying  hours  ? 
Yet  this  they  dare,  and,  craving  to  the  last, 
In  hope's    strong   bondage    hold   their  victim 

fast: 
For  soul  or  body  no  concern  have  they, 
All  their  inquiry,  "  Can  the  patient  pay  ? 
And  will  he  swallow  draughts  until  his  dying 
day?" 
Observe  what  ills  to  nervous  females  flow, 
When  the  heart  flutters  and  the  pulse  is  low  ; 
If  once  induced  these  cordial  sips  to  try, 
All  feel  the  ease,  and  few  the  danger  fly  ; 
For,   while  obtained,  of  drams  they  've  all  the 

force, 
And  when  denied,  then  drams  are  the  resource. 

"Who  would  not  lend  a  sympathizing  sigh, 
To  hear  yon  infant's  pity-moving  cry  ? 
Then   the   good   nurse  (who,  had   she  borne  a 

brain, 
Had  sought  the  cause  that  made  her  babe  com- 
plain) 
Has  all  her  efforts,  loving  soul  !  applied 
To  set  the  cry,  and  not  the  cause,  aside  ; 
She  gave  her  powerful  sweet  without  remorse, 
The  sleeping  cordial,  —  she  had  tried  its  force, 
Repeating  oft  ;  the  infant,  freed  from  pain, 
Rejected  food,  but  took  the  dose  again, 
Sinking  to  sleep,  while  she  her  joy  expressed, 
That  her  dear  charge;  could  sweetly  take  his  rest. 
Soon  may  she  spare  her  cordial  ;  not  a  doubt 
Remains  but  quickly  he  will  rest  without. 

What  then  our  hopes?  —  perhaps  there  may 
by  law 
Be  method  found  these  pests  to  curb  and  awe  ; 
Yet,  in  this  land  of  freedom,  law  is  slack 
With  any  being  to  commence  attack  : 
Then  let  us  trust  to  science,  — there  are  those 
Who  can 'their  falsehoods  and  their  frauds  dis- 
close, 
All  their  vile  trash  detect,  and  their  low  tricks 

expose. 
Perhaps  their  numbers  may  in  time  confound 
Their  arts,  — as  scorpions  give  themselves  the 

wound  ; 
For  when  these  curers  dwell  in  every  place, 
While  of  the  cured  we  nol  a  man  can  trace, 
Strong  truth  may  then  the  public  mind  persuade, 
And  spoil  the  fruits  of  this  nefarious  trade. 

GliOKGE  CKAIII1E. 


THE   RULING    PASSION. 


•  MORAL   ESSAYS. 


In  this  one  passion  man  can  strength  enjoy, 
As  fits  give  vigor  just  when  they  destroy. 
Time,  that  on  all  things  lays  his  lenient  hand, 
Yet  tames  not  this  ;  it  sticks  to  our  last  sand. 
Consistent  in  our  follies  and  our  sins, 
Here  honest  Nature  ends  as  she  begins. 

Old  politicians  chew  on  wisdom  past, 
And  totter  on  in  business  to  the  last ; 
As  weak,  as  earnest ;  and  as  gravely  out, 
As  sober  Lanesb'row  dancing  in  the  gout. 

Behold  a  reverend  sire,  whom  want  of  grace 
Has  made  the  father  of  a  nameless  race, 
Shoved  from  the  wall  perhaps,  or  rudely  pressed 
By  his  own  son,  that  passes  by  unblessed  : 
Still  to  his  wench  he  crawls  on  knocking  knees, 
And  envies  every  sparrow  that  he  sees. 

A  salmon's  belly,  Helluo,  was  thy  fate. 
The  doctor  called,  declares  all  help  too  late. 
"Mercy  !  "  cries  Helluo,  "mercy  on  my  soul  ; 
Istherenohope?  —  Alas!  —  then  bring  the  jowl." 

The  frugal  crone,  whom  praying  priests  attend, 
Still  tries  to  save  the  hallowed  taper's  end, 
Collects  her  breath,  as  ebbing  life  retires, 
For  one  puff  more,  and  in  that  puff  expires. 

"Odious!  in  woollen!    'twould  a  saint  pro- 
voke," 
(Were  the  last  words  that  poor  Narcissa  spoke  ;) 
"  No,  let  a  charming  chintz  and  Brussels  lace 
Wrap  my  cold  limits,  and  shade  my  lifeless  face  : 
One  would  not,  sure,  be  frightful  when   one 's 

dead,  — - 
And  —  Betty — give  this  cheek  a  little  red." 

The  courtier  smooth,  who  forty  years  had  sinned 
An  humble  servant  to  all  human-kind, 
Just  brought  out  this,   when  scarce  his  tongue 

could  stir, 
' '  If — where  I  'm  going  —  I  could  serve  you,  sir  ? " 

"  I  give  and  I  devise  "  (old  Euclio  said, 
And  sighed)  "  my  lands  and  tenements  to  Ned." 
Your  money,  sir?  "  My  money,  sir  !  what,  all  \ 
Why  — if  I  must  — (then  wept)  1  give  it  Paul." 
The  manor,  sir  ?     "  The  manor  !  hold,"  he  cried, 
"  Not  that, — I  cannot  part  with  that," — and 

died.  ALEXANBER  POPE. 


THK   FICKLE   MOB. 


CORIOI.ANUS. 


CAIU8  MARCIUS.    What  would  you  have,  you 

curs, 

That  like  not  peace,  nor  war  I  the  one  affrights  you, 

The  other  makes  you  proud.    He  that  trusts  to  you, 

Where  he  should  lind  you  lions,  finds  you  hares  ; 


--B3 


a- 


-R- 


602 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


Where  foxes,  geese  :  you  are  no  surer,  no, 

Than  is  the  coal  of  fire  upon  the  ice, 

Or  hailstone  in  the  sun.     Your  virtue  is, 

To   make   him    worthy   whose   offence  subdues 

him, 
And  curse  that  justice  did  it.  Who  deserves  great- 
ness, 
Deserves  your  hate  ;  and  your  affections  are 
A  sick  man's  appetite,  who  desires  most  that 
Which  would  increase  hisevil.      He  that  depends 
Upon  your  favors  swims  with  fins  of  lead, 
And  hews  down  oaks  with  rushes.     Hang  ye  ! 

Trust  ye  ? 
With  every  minute  you  do  change  a  mind  ; 
And  call  him  noble  that  was  now  your  hate, 
Him  vile  that  was  your  garland.     What 's  the 

matter, 
That  in  these  several  places  of  the  city 
You  cry  against  the  noble  senate,  who, 
Under  the  gods,  keep  you  in  awe,  which  else 
Would  feed  on  one  another  ? 

Coriolaxus.  You  common  cry  of  curs  !  whose 
breath  I  hate 
As  reek  o'  the  rotten  fens,  whose  loves  I  prize 
As  the  dead  carcasses  of  unburied  men 
That  do  corrupt  my  air,  —  I  banish  you  ; 
And  here  remain  with  your  uncertainty  ! 
Let  every  feeble  rumor  shake  your  hearts  ! 
Your  enemies,  with  nodding  of  their  plumes, 
Fan  you  into  despair  !     Have  the  power  still 
To  banish  your  defenders  ;  till  at  length, 
Your  ignorance,  (which  finds  not,  till  it  feels,) 
Making  but  reservation  of  yourselves, 
(Still  your  own  foes,)  deliver  you,  as  most 
Abated  captives,  to  some  nation 
That  won  you  without  blows  !     Despising, 
For  you,  the  city,  thus  I  turn  my  back  : 
There  is  a  world  elsewhere. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   TOOTHACHE. 

My  curse  upon  thy  venomed  stang, 
That  shoots  my  tortured  gums  alang  ; 
An'  through  my  lugs  gies  mony  a  twang, 

Wi'  gnawing  vengeance  ! 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  bitter  pang, 

Like  racking  engines. 

When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Hheumatics  gnaw,  or  cholic  squeezes; 
Our  neighbor's  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi'  pitying  moan  ; 
But  thee,  —  thou  hell  o'  a'  diseases, 

Aye  mocks  our  groan. 


Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle  ; 
I  throw  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  mickle, 
As  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle 

To  see  me  loup  ; 
While,  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle 

Were  in  their  doup. 

0'  a'  the  numerous  human  dools, 

111  har'sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools, 

Or  worthy  friends  raked  i'  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see  ! 
The  tricks  o'  knaves  or  fash  o'  fools, 

Thou  bear'st  the  gree. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   AUTHOR'S   MISERIES. 

FROM    THE    "  PROLOGUE    TO    THE   SATIRES." 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John  !  fatigued  I  said, 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I  'm  sick,  1  'm  dead. 
The  Dog-star  rages  !  nay,  't  is  past  a  doubt, 
All  Bedlam,  or  Parnassus,  is  let  out : 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand, 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 
What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can  hide  ? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they 

glide, 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge, 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free, 
Even  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath-day  to  me  : 
Then  from  the  Mint  walks  forth  the  man  of  rhyme, 
Happy  !  to  catch  me,  just  at  dinner-time. 

Is  there  a  parson  much  be-mused  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk,  foredoomed  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should  engross  ? 
Is  there,  who,  locked  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darkened  walls  ? 
All  fly  to  Twic'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
A  dire  dilemma  !  either  way  1  'm  sped, 
If  foes,  they  write,  — if  friends,  they  read  me  dead. 
Seized  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I  ! 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie  : 
To  laugh  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace, 
And  to  be  grave  exceeds  all  power  of  face. 
I  sit  with  sad  civility,  I  read 
With  honest  anguish  and  an  aching  head  ; 
And  drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears, 
Thissavingcounsel,  "  Keep  your  piece  nineyears." 

"Nine  years ! "  cries  lie  who  high  in  Drury  Lane, 
Lulled  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane, 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  andprints  before  Term  ends, 
Obliged  by  hunger,  and  request  of  friends,  — 
"The  piece,  you  think,  is  incorrect?  why,  take  it, 


ffl- 


~S 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


003 


•a 


I  'm  all  submission  ;  what  you'd  have  it,  make  it." 
Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound, 
My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and  ten  pound. 

Pitholeon  sends  to  me  :  "  You  know  his  Grace, 
I  want  a  patron  ;  ask  him  for  a  place. " 
Pitholeon  libelled  me —  "  But  here  's  a  letter 
Informs  you,  sir,  't  was  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him  ?    Curl  invites  to  dine, 
He  '11  write  a  journal,  or  he  '11  turn  divine." 
Bless  me  !  a  packet.  —  "  'T  is  a  stranger  sues, 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  muse." 
If  I  dislike  it,  "  Furies,  death,  and  rage  !  " 
If  I  approve,  "  Commend  it  to  the  stage." 
There  (thank  my  stars)  my  whole  commission  ends, 
The  players  and  1  are,  luckily,  no  friends. 
Fired  that  the  house  reject  him,  "'Sdeath,  I  '11 

print  it, 
And  shame  the  fools.  — Your  interest,  sir,  with 

Lintot." 
Lintot,  dull  rogue  !  will  think  your  price  too  much: 
"Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it,  and  retouch." 
All  my  demurs  but  double  his  attacks  ; 
At  last  he  whispers,  "Do  ;  and  we  go  snacks." 
Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door, 
Sir,  let  me  see  your  works  and  you  no  more. 
"Who   shames   a   scribbler  ?    break   one    cobweb 

through, 
He  spins  the  slight,  self- pleasing  thread  anew  : 
Destiny  his  lib  or  sophistry,  in  vain, 
The  creature  's  at  his  dirty  work  again, 
Throned  in  the  centre  of  his  thin  designs, 
Proud  of  a  vast  extent  of  flimsy  lines  ! 
Of  all  mad  creatures,  if  the  learned  are  right, 
It  is  the  slaver  kills,  and  not  the  bite. 
A  tool  quite  angry  is  quite  innocent, 
Alas  !  't  is  ten  times  worse  when  they  repent. 

One  dedicates  in  high  heroic  prose, 
Ami  ridicules  beyond  a  hundred  foes  : 
One  from  all  Grub  Street  will  my  fame  defend, 
And,  more  abusive,  calls  himself  my  friend. 
This  prints  my  Letters,  that  expects  a  bribe, 
And  others  roar  aloud,  "Subscribe,  subscribe." 
There  are,  who  to  my  person  pay  their  court  : 
I  cough  like  Horace,  and,  though  lean,  am  short; 
Amman's  great  son  <>ii<-  shoulder  had  too  high, 
Such  OvicVs nose,  and  "Sir!  you  have  an  eye."  — 
Go  on,  obliging  creatures,  make  me  see, 
All  thai  disgraced  my  betters  met  in  me. 
Say  for  my  cqmfort,  languishing  in  bed, 
".lust  so  immortal  Maro  held  his  head"  : 
And  when  I  die,  be  sure  you  let  me  know 
Great  Homer  died  three  thousand  years  ago. 

Why  did  I  write  f  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  Ne  in  ink, — my  parents',  or  my  own  ? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  tame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  exiling  for  this  idle  trade, 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed. 


The  muse  but  served  to  ease   some  friend,  not 

wife, 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life. 

Soft  were  my  numbers  ;  who  could  take  offence 
While  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense  ? 
Like  gentle  Fanny's  was  my  flowery  theme, 
A  painted  mistress,  or  a  purling  stream. 
Yet  then  did  Gildan  draw  his  venal  quill  ; 
I  wished  the  man  a  dinner,  and  sate  still. 
Yet  then  did  Dennis  rave  in  furious  fret ; 
I  never  answered,  1  was  not  in  debt. 

Did  some  more  sober  critic  come  abroad  ; 
If  wrong,  I  smiled  ;  if  right,  I  kissed  the  rod 
Pains,  reading,  study,  are  their  just  pretence, 
And  all  they  want  is  spirit,  taste,  and  sense. 
Commas  and  points  they  set  exactly  right, 
And  't  were  a  sin  to  rob  them  of  their  mite. 
Yet  ne'er  one  sprig  of  laurel  graced  these  ribalds, 
From  slashing  Bentley  down  to  piddling  Tibbalds : 
Each  wight  who  reads  not,  and  but  scans  and 

spells, 
Each  word-catcher  that  lives  on  syllables, 
Even  such  small  critics  some  regard  may  claim, 
Preserved  in  Milton's  or  in  Shakespeare  s  name. 
Pretty  !  in  amber  to  observe  the  forms 
Of  hairs,  or  straws,  or  dirt,  or  grubs,  or  worms  ! 
The  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare, 
But  wonder  how  the  devil  they  got  there. 
The  bard  whom  pilfered  pastorals  renown, 
Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half  a  crown, 
Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear, 
And  strains,  from  hard-bound  brains,  eight  linos 

a  year ; 
He  who  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft, 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left  ; 
And  he  who  now  to  sense,  now  nonsense,   lean- 
ing. 
Means  not,  but  blunders  round  about  a  meaning  : 
And  he  whose  fustian  's  so  sublimely  bad, 
It  is  not  poetry,  but  prose  run  mad  : 
All  these  my  modest  satire  bade  translate, 
And  owned  that  nine  such  Poets  made  a  Tate. 
Peace  to  all  such !   but  were  there  one  whose 
fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires  ; 
Blest  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please, 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease  : 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone. 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  hinisell  to  rise  ; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And,  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer  ; 
Willing  t<>  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike  ; 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike  ; 
Alike  reserved  to  blame  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend. 

Alexander  pope. 


W 


a 


004 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT   AND    REFLECTION. 


ft 


RHYMERS. 

FROM    "  FIRST    PART   OF    HENRY    TV." 

I  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry,  mew, 

Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers  ; 

I  had  rather  hear  a  brazen  canstick  turned, 

Or  a  dry  wheel  grate  on  an  axletree  ; 

And  that  would  set  my  teeth  nothing  on  edge, 

Nothing  so  much  as  mincing  poetry  : 

'T  is  like  the  forced  gait  of  a  shuffling  nag. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


TO  THE   UNCO   GUID. 

"  My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule 

And  lump  them  aye  thegither : 
The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool. 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither  ; 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 

May  hae  some  pylcs  o'  caff  in  ; 
Sae  ne'er  a  fellow-creature  slight 

For  random  fits  o'  darhn." 

SOLOMON.  —F.ccles.  vii.  16. 

0  YE  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel' 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 
Ye  've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neebor's  fauts  and  folly  :  — 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water, 
The  heaped  happer  's  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 
That  frerpient  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals  ! 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

"Would  here  propone  defences, 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer  ; 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
And  (what 's  aft  niair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hidin'. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop, 
"What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 

That  still  eternal  gallop  : 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way  ; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco  leeway. 


Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 
Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases  ; 
A  dear-loved  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination,  — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug, 

Ye  're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human. 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it  ; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us  ; 
He  knows  each  chord,  — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  —  its  various  bias  : 
Then  at  the  balance  let 's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What 's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted. 

Robert  Burns. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 

Hexce,  vain  deluding  joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  ! 
How  little  you  bestead, 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams, — 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and  holy  ! 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy  ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore,  to  our  weaker  view, 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  wisdom's  hue,  — 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  ; 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore,  — 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades  . 


& 


& 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   EEFLECTION. 


605      I 


He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  Cyprus  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn  ! 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  ; 
There  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad,  leaden,  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast  ; 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet,  • 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing. 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure  ; 
But  first  and  chicfest,  with  thee  bring 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne,  — 
The  cherub  Contemplation  ; 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 
'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 
In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak. 
Sweet  bird,  that  shun'st  the  noise  of  folly,  - 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 
Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song  : 
And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry,  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Eiding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way  ; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
1  hear  the  far-olf  curfew  sound 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar  ; 
Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  — 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  <>n  the  hearth, 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 
To  blrvs  the  doors  from  nightly  harm  ; 
Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hoar 


Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook  ; 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine, 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  0  sad  virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower ! 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  hell  grant  what  love  did  seek  ! 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  — 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife,  — 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass,  — 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  ! 
And,  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung,  — 
Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  car. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear,  — 
Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 
But  kerchiefed  in  a  comely  cloud, 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 
With  minute  drops  from  ofl  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  arched  wnlks  of  twilight  groves, 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 
Where  the  rude  axe  with  braved  stroke 
Was  never  heard  the  Nymphs  to  daunt, 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 


-ff 


fl- 


606 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid  ; 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 
With  antic  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  windows,  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full-voiced  quire  below, 
In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 
And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live, 

John  Milton. 


HALLOWED   GROUND. 

What  's  hallowed  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That's  hallowed  ground  —  where,  mourned  and 

missed, 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed  ;  — 
But  where 's  their  memory's  mansion  ?     Is 't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers  ? 
No  !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 


A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound  : 
The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  heaven  ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old  ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould  ; 

And  will  not  cool, 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  wheiv  heroes  sleep  ? 
'T  is  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom  ; 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind, 

And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is 't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He  's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light  ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws  :  — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause  ! 

Give  that  !  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums  !  and  rend  heaven's  reeking  space  ! 

The  colors  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  !  —  but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal ! 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 

0  God  above  ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace,  Love  !  the  cherubim,  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine, 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not,  — 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  ? 


43— 


— EP 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND    REFLECTION. 


G07 


ft 


See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt, 
That  man  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

"With  chime  or  chant. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man  ! 
Thy  temples,  —  creeds  themselves  grow  wan  ! 
But  there  's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban,  — 

Its  space  is  heaven  ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars  !  are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death,  your  worlds  obscure  ? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Ye  must  be  heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love  ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time  ; 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

i 
"What 's  hallowed  ground  ?  'T  is  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  !  — 
Peace !  Independence !  Truth  !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round  ; 

And  your  high-priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


A   TEAR. 

0  that  the  chemist's  magic  art 

<  lould  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure  ! 

Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

'I'll'   little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell, 

Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye  ; 

Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell,  — 
The  spring  of  Sensibility  ! 

Sweet  drop  of  purr  and  pearly  light ! 

In  thee  the  rays  <>f  Virtue  shine, 
Afore  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright, 

Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 


Benign  restorer  of  the  soul  ! 

Who  ever  tliest  to  bring  relief, 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 

Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme, 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age, 
Thou  charm'st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream, 

In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law  which  moulds  a  tear, 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 

That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere, 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE. 

I  went  to  the  garden  of  love, 
And  saw  what  I  never  had  seen  ; 
A  chapel  was  built  in  the  midst, 
Where  I  used  to  play  on  the  green. 

And  the  gate  of  this  chapel  was  shut, 
And  "thou  shalt  not  "  writ  over  the  door  ; 
So  I  turned  to  the  garden  of  love, 
That  so  many  sweet  flowers  bore. 

And  I  saw  it  was  filled  with  graves, 

And  tombstones  where  flowers  should  be  ; 

And  priests  in  black  gowns  were  walking  their 

rounds, 

And  binding  with  briers  my  joys  and  desires. 

William  Blake. 


INVOCATION  TO   RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

0  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain, 

Let  not  the  silver  lily  pine, 
The  drooping  lily  pine  in  vain 

To  feel  that  dewy  touch  of  thine,  — 
To  drink  thy  freshness  once  again, 
0  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain  ! 

In  heat  the  landscape  quivering  lies  ; 

The  cattle  pant  beneath  the  tree  ; 
Through  parching  air  and  purple  skies 

The  earth  looks  up,  in  vain,  for  thee  ; 
For  thee  — for  thee,  it  looks  in  vain, 
0  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain. 

Come  thou,  and  brim  the  meadow  streams, 

And  soften  all  the  hills  with  mist, 
0  falling  <\<-\v  !  from  burning  dreams 

By  tl shall  herb  and  flower  be  kissed, 

And  Earth  shall  Mess  thee  yet.  again, 

0  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain. 

William  Cox  Benm  it. 


-ff 


a- 


608 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


IF   WOMEN    COULD    BE   FAIR. 


FROM    BYRD  S 


1588. 


If  women  could  be  fair  and  never  fond, 
Or  that  their  beauty  might  continue  still, 

I  -would  not  marvel  though  they  made  men  bond, 
By  service  long  to  purchase  their  good-will  ; 

But  when  I  see  how  frail  these  creatures  are, 

I  laugh  that  men  forget  themselves  so  far. 

To  mark  what  choice  they  make,  and  how  they 
change, 
How,  leaving  best,  the  worst  they  choose  out 
still, 
And  how,  like  haggards,  wild  about  they  range, 

Scorning  the  reason  to  follow  after  will  ; 
Who  would  not  shake  such  buzzards  from  the  fist, 
And  let  them  fly,  fair  fools,  what  way  they  list  ? 

Yet  for  our  sport  we  fawn  and  flatter  both, 
To  pass  the  time  when  nothing  else  can  please, 

And  train  them  on  to  yield,  by  subtle  oath, 
The  sweet  content  that  gives  such  humor  ease  ; 

And  then  we  say,  when  we  their  follies  try, 

To  play  with  fools,  0,  what  a  fool  was  I  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  ONE  GRAY  HAIR. 

The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies, 

And  love  to  hear  them  told  ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a  one,  — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew  old. 

I  never  sat  among 

The  choir  of  wisdom's  song, 

But  pretty  lies  loved  I 
As  much  as  any  king,  — 
When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 
And  (must  it  then  be  told  ?)  when  youth  had  quite 
gone  by. 

Alas  !  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot, 

When  one  pert  lady  said,  — 
"  0  Landor  !  I  am  quite 
Bewildered  with  affright  ; 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now  !)  a  white  hair  on  your  head  ! '' 

Another,  more  benign, 
Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine, 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretendeil  she  had  found 
That  one,  and  twirled  it  round.  — 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


DRINK   TO   ME   ONLY   WITH   THINE 
EYES. 

FROM    "THE    FOREST." 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine  ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I  '11  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be  ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee  ! 

PHILOSTRATUS  (Greek).    Trans- 
lation of  Ben  jonson. 


THE  MAHOGANY-TREE. 

Christmas  is  here  ; 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we  ; 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  mahogany-tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom  ; 
Night-birds  are  Ave  ; 
Here  Ave  carouse, 
Singing,  like  them, 
Perched  round  the  sterr 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  sport, 
Boys,  as  Ave  sit,  — 
Laughter  and  Avit 
Flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short,  — 
When  Ave  arc  gone, 
Let  them  sing  on, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  Ave  kneAV, 
Happy  as  this ; 
Faces  we  miss, 
Pleasant  to  see. 


& 


~ff 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


tl 


GOO 


Kind  hearts  and  true, 

Gentle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
Lurks  at  the  gate  : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
Happy  we  '11  be  ! 
Drink,  every  one  ; 
Pile  up  the  coals  ; 
Fill  the  red  howls, 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 

Drain  we  the  cup.  — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up  ; 
Empty  it  yet ; 
Let  us  forget, 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 

Sorrows,  begone  ! 
Life  and  its  ills, 
Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn, 
Blue-devil  sprite  ; 
Leave  us  to-night, 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 

William  Makrpeace  Thackeray. 


THE   OLD   FOGY. 


OLD    WINE    TO    DRINK,    OLD   WOOD   TO    BURN,    OLD    BOOKS 
TO   READ,    AND   OLD    FRIENDS   TO   CONVERSE   WITH. 


Old  wine  to  drink  !  — 
Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose 

Within  the  tun  ; 
Plucked  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 
And  ripened  'neath  the  blink 

Of  India's  sun  ! 

Peat  whiskey  hot, 
Tempered  with  well-boiled  water  ! 
These  make  the  long  night  shorter,  — 

Forgetting  not 
Good  stout  old  English  porter. 

ir. 
Old  wood  to  burn  !  — 
Ay,  bring  the  hillside  beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech, 
Ami  ravens  croak  ; 


The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet ; 
Bring  too  a  clump  of  fragrant  peat, 
Dug  'neath  the  fern  ; 

The  knotted  oak, 

A  fagot  too,  perhap, 
Whose  bright  flame,  dancing,  winking, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking  ; 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

in. 

Old  books  to  read  !  — 
Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit, 
The  brazen-clasped,  the  vellum  writ, 

Time-honored  tomes  ! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 
The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o'er, 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore, 
The  well-earned  meed 

Of  Oxford's  domes  ; 

Old  Homer  blind, 
Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  Tully,  Plautus,  Terence  lie  ; 
Mort  Arthur's  olden  minstrelsie, 
Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay  ! 
And  Gervase  Markham's  venerie,  — 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  Holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die. 

IV. 

Old  friends  to  talk  !  — 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 
The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found  ; 
Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud, 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 
In  mountain  walk  ! 
Bring  Walter  good  : 
With  soulful  Fred  ;  and  learned  Will, 
And  thee,  my  alter  ego  (dearer  still 
For  every  mood). 

Robert  Hinchley  Messenger 


B-~ 


ATJLD   LANG   SYNE. 

Sliori.i)  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

CIIOKIS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


W 


a- 


cio 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pou'd  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we  've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  etc. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine  ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  etc. 

And  here 's  a  hand,  my  trusty  Mere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine  ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  right  guid  willie-waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  etc. 

And  surely  ye  '11  be  your  pint-stoup, 

And  surely  I  '11  be  mine  ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld,  etc. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see,  — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 
That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray  ; 
Its  hold  is  frail, —  its  date  is  brief, 
Restless,  —  and  soon  to  pass  away  ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree,  — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 

Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand  ; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand  ; 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea,  — 

But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me  ! 

Richard  Henry  Wilde. 


LIFE. 


I  MADE  a  posie,  while  the  day  ran  by  : 
Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band. 
But  time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and  they 
By  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 

And  withered  in  my  hand. 

My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then  my  heart ; 
I  took,  without  more  thinking,  in  good  part 

Time's  gentle  admonition  ; 
"Who  did  so  sweetly  death's  sad  taste  convey, 
Making  my  minde  to  smell  my  fatall  day, 

Yet  sugring  the  suspicion. 

Farewell,  dear  flowers,  sweetly  your  time  ye  spent, 
Fit,  while  ye  lived,  for  smell  or  ornament, 

And  after  death  for  cures. 
I  follow  straight  without  complaints  or  grief, 
Since,  if  my  scent  be  good,  I  care  not,  if 

It  be  as  short  as  yours. 

George  Herbert. 


LIFE. 


My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 
That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 
Is  scattered  on  the  ground,  — to  die  ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 


"BLESSED   ARE  THEY  THAT  MOURN." 

0,  DEEM  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep  ; 

The  Power  who  pities  man  has  shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears  ; 

And  weary  hours  of  woe  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night  ; 

And  grief  may  bide  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier, 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere 
Will  give  him  to  thy  amis  again. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trnst  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny,  — 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  bleeding  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  hath  marked  each  sorrowing  day 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 

And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 

WII.I.IAM  CUI-I.RN  BRVANT. 


£&-- 


& 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


Gil 


a 


LIFE. 

•  ■  •  ■  • 

This  life,  sae  far  's  I  understand, 

Is  a'  enchanted  fairy  land, 

Where  Pleasure  is  the  magic  wand, 

That,  wielded  right, 
Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand, 

Dance  by  fu'  light. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield  ; 
For,  ance  that  five-an' -forty  's  steeled, 
See  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi'  wrinkled  face, 
Comes  hostin',  hirplin',  owre  the  field, 

Wi'  creepin'  pace. 

When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin', 
Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin'  ; 
An'  fareweel  cheerfu'  tankards  foamin', 

An'  social  noise  ; 
An'  fareweel  dear,  deluding  woman  ! 

The  joy  of  joys  ! 

0  Life  !  how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 
Young  Fancy's  rays  the  hills  adorning  ! 
Cold-pausing  Caution's  lesson  scorning, 

We  frisk  away, 
Like  school-hoys,  at  the  expected  warning, 

To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 
We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 
Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near, 

Amang  the  leaves  : 
And  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

Some,  lucky,  find  a  flowery  spot, 

For  which  they  never  toiled  nor  swat ; 

They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain  ; 
And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

With  high  disdain. 

With  steady  aim  some  Fortune  chase  ; 
KeeD   Hope  does  every  sinew  brace.  ; 

Through  lair,  through  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 

And  seize  tin-  prey  : 
Then  cannie,  in  some  eozie  place, 

They  close  the  day. 

An'  others,  like  your  humble  servan', 

Pool  wights  !   nae  rules  nor  roads  observin', 
To  right  or  left,  eternal  Bwervin', 

They  zig-zag  on  ; 
Till  curst  wi'  age,  obscure  an'  starvin', 

They  alien  groan. 

Rl  HIFRT  BURNS. 


THE   RIVER   OF   LIFE. 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 

Our  life's  succeeding  stages  ; 
A  day  to  childhood  seems  a  year, 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth, 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders, 
Steals  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 

Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But  as  the  careworn  cheek  grows  wan, 
And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 

Ye  stars,  that  measure  life  to  man, 
Why  seem  your  courses  quicker  ? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and  breath, 

And  life  itself  is  vapid, 
Why,  as  we  near  the  Falls  of  Death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid  ? 

It  may  be  strange,  —  yet  who  would  change 
Time's  course  to  slower  speeding, 

When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone 
And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding  ? 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength 

Indemnifying  fleetness  ; 
And  those  of  youth,  a  seeming  length, 

Proportioned  to  their  sweetness. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


A  MEDITATION    ON   THE    FRAILTY  OF 
THIS   LIFE. 

0  trifling  toys  that  toss  the  brains 

While  loathsome  life  doth  last  ; 
0  wished  wealth,  O  sugared  joys, 

0  life  when  death  is  past  ! 
Who  loathes  exchange  of  loss  with  gain  ? 

Yet  loathe  we  death  as  hell. 
What  woful  wight  would  wish  his  woe  ? 

Yet  wish  we  here  to  dwell. 
0  Fancy  frail,  that  feeds  on  earth, 

And  stays  on  slippery  joys  ! 
0  noble  mind,  0  happy  man, 

That  can  contemn  Buch  toys! 

Such  toys  as  neither  perfect  are, 
And  cannot  long  endure  ; 

Our  greatest  skill,  our  sweetest  joy, 

Uncertain  and  unsure. 
For  life  is  short,  and  learning  long, 

All   pleasure  Illixt  with  Woe  ; 

Sickness  and  sleep  steal  time  unseen, 
And  joys  do  come  and  go. 


& 


fl- 


612 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


■a 


Thus  learning  is  but  learned  by  halves, 

And  joy  enjoyed  no  while  ; 
That  serves  to  show  thee  what  thou  want'st, 

This  helps  thee  to  beguile. 

But  after  death  is  perfect  skill, 

And  joy  without  decay  ; 
"When  sin  is  gone,  that  blinds  our  eyes, 

And  steals  our  joys  away. 
No  crowing  cock  shall  raise  us  up 

To  spend  the  day  in  vain  ; 
No  weary  labor  shall  us  drive 

To  go  to  bed  again. 
But  —  for  we  feel  not  what  Ave  want, 

Nor  know  not  what  we  have  — 

We  love  to  keep  the  body's  life, 
"We  loathe  the  soul  to  save. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   EBB-TIDE. 

Slowly  thy  flowing  tide 
Came  in,  old  Avon  !  Scarcely  did  mine  eyes, 
As  watchfully  I  roamed  thy  greenwood  side, 

Perceive  its  gentle  rise. 

"With  many  a  stroke  and  strong 
The  laboring  boatmen  upward  plied  their  oars  ; 
Yet  little  way  they  made,  though  laboring  long 

Between  thy  winding  shores. 

Now  down  thine  ebbing  tide 
The  unlabored  boat  falls  rapidly  along  ; 
The  solitary  helmsman  sits  to  guide, 

And  sings  an  idle  song. 

Now  o'er  the  rocks  that  lay 
So  silent  late  the  shallow  current  roars  ; 
Fast  flow  thy  waters  on  their  seaward  way, 

Through  wider-spreading  shores. 

Avon,  I  gaze  and  know 
The  lesson  emblemed  in  thy  varying  way  ; 
It  speaks  of  human  joys  that  rise  so  slow, 

So  rapidly  decay. 

Kingdoms  which  long  have  stood 
And  slow  to  strength  and  power  attained  at  last, 
Thus  from  the  summit  of  high  Fortune's  flood, 

They  ebb  to  ruin  fast. 

Thus  like  thy  flow  appears 
Time's  tardy  course  to  manhood's  envied  stage. 
Alas  !  how  hurryingly  the  ebbing  years 


Then  hasten  to  old  age  ! 


BUSY,    CURIOUS,    THIRSTY   FLY. 

[Last  verse  added  by  Rev.  J.  Plumtree.] 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly, 
Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I  ; 
Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 
Couldst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up. 
Make  the  most  of  life  you  may  ; 
Life  is  short,  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine, 
Hastening  quick  to  their  decline  ; 
Thine 's  a  summer,  mine  no  more, 
Though  repeated  to  threescore. 
Threescore  summers,  when  they  're  gone, 
Will  appear  as  short  as  one. 

Yet  this  difference  we  may  see 

'Twixt  the  life  of  man  and  thee,  — 

Thou  art  for  this  life  alone, 

Man  seeks  another  when  't  is  gone  ; 

And  though  allowed  its  joys  to  share, 

Tries  virtue  here,  hopes  pleasure  there. 

Vincent  Bourne. 


Robert  Southey. 


THE  VANITY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

False  world,  thou  ly'st  :  thou  canst  not  lend 

The  least  delight  : 
Thy  favors  cannot  gain  a  friend, 

They  are  so  slight  : 
Thy  morning  pleasures  make  an  end 

To  please  at  night : 
Poor  are  the  wants  that  thou  supply'st, 
And  yet  thou  vaunt'st,  and  yet  thou  vy'st 
With  heaven  ;   fond  earth,  thou  boasts  ;   false 
world,  thou  ly'st. 

Thy  babbling  tongue  tells  golden  tales 

Of  endless  treasure  ; 
Thy  bounty  offers  easy  sales 

Of  lasting  pleasure  ; 
Thou  ask'st  the  conscience  what  she  ails, 

And  swear' st  to  ease  her  ; 
There  'a  none  can  want  where  thou  supply'st : 
There 's  none  can  give  where  thou  deny'st. 
Alas  !  fond  world,  thou  boasts  ;  false  world,  thou 
ly'st. 

What  well-advised  ear  regards 

What  earth  can  say  ? 
Thy  words  are  gold,  but  thy  rewards 

Are  painted  clay  : 
Thy  cunning  can  but  pack  the  cards, 

Thou  canst  not  play  : 
Thy  game  at  weakest,  still  thou  vy'st ; 
If  seen,  and  then  revy'd,  deny'st  : 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st ;   false  world, 
thou  ly'st. 


ta- 


--B3 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


615 


ft 


Thy  tinsel  bosom  seems  a  mint 

Of  new-coined  treasure ; 
A  paradise,  that  has  no  stint, 

No  change,  no  measure  ; 
A  painted  cask,  but  nothing  in 't, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  pleasure  : 
Vain  earth  !  that  falsely  thus  comply'st 
With  man  ;  vain  man  !  that  thou  rely'st 
On  earth  ;  vain  man,  thou  dot'st ;  vain  earth, 
thou  ly'st. 

What  mean  dull  souls,  in  this  high  measure, 

To  haberdash 
In  earth's  base  wares,  whose  greatest  treasure 

Is  dross  and  trash  ? 
The  height  of  whose  enchanting  pleasure 

Is  but  a  flash  ? 
Are  these  the  goods  that  thou  supply'st 
Us  mortals  with  ?     Are  these  the  high'st  ? 
Can  these  bring  cordial  peace  ?  false  world,  thou 

v  st-  Francis  Quarles. 


THE   NEVERMORE. 

Look  in  my  face  ;  my  name  is  Might-have-been  ; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell ; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between  ; 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by  my 
spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 
Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail  screen. 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am  !  But  should  there  dart 
One  moment  through  my  soul  the  soft  surprise 
Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the  breath  of 
sighs,  — 
Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 
Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


THE   GENIUS   OF  DEATH. 

Wnvi  is  death  '  'T  is  to  hi-  free, 

No  more  to  love  or  hope  or  fear, 
To  join  tlie  great  equality  ; 

All,  all  alike  ore  humbled  there. 
The  mighty  grave 
Wraps  lord  and  slave  ; 
Nor  pride  nor  poverty  dares  come 
Within  that,  refuge-house,       the  tomb. 

Spirit  with  tin'  drooping  wing 
And  the  ever-weeping  eve, 


Thou  of  all  earth's  kings  art  king  ; 
Empires  at  thy  footstool  lie  ; 
Beneath  thee  strewed, 
Their  multitude 
Sink  like  waves  upon  the  shore  ; 
Storms  shall  never  raise  them  more. 

What  's  the  grandeur  of  the  earth 

To  the  grandeur  round  thy  throne  ? 
Riches,  glory,  beauty,  birth, 
To  thy  kingdom  all  have  gone. 
Before  thee  stand 
The  wondrous  band,  — 
Bards,  heroes,  sages,  side  by  side, 
Who  darkened  nations  when  they  died. 

Earth  has  hosts,  but  thou  canst  show 

Many  a  million  for  her  one  ; 
Through  thy  gates  the  mortal  flow 
Hath  for  countless  years  rolled  on. 
Back  from  the  tomb 
No  step  has  come, 
There  fixed  till  the  last  thunder's  sound 
Shall  bid  thy  prisoners  be  unbound. 

George  Croly. 

« 

LINES 

WRITTEN    BY    ONE    IN     THE    TOWER,    BEING    YOUNG    AND 
CONDEMNED    TO    DIE. 

My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares  ; 

My  feast  of  joy  is  but  a  dish  of  pain  ; 
My  crop  of  corn  is  but  a  field  of  tares  ; 

And  all  my  good  is  but  vain  hope  of  gain  : 
The  day  is  [fled],  and  yet  I  saw  no  sun  ; 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done  ! 

The  spring  is  past,  and  yet  it  hath  not  sprung  ; 

The  fruit  is  dead,  and  yet  the  leaves  are  green  ; 
My  youth  is  gone,  and  yet  I  am  hut  young  ; 

I  saw  the  world,  and  yet  I  was  not  seen  : 
My  thread  is  cut,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun  ; 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done  ! 

I  sought  my  death,  and  found  it  in  my  womb ; 

I  looked  for  life,  and  saw  it  was  a  shade  ; 
I  trod  the  earth,  and  knew  it  was  niv  tomb  ; 

And  now  I  die,  and  now  I  am  but  made  ; 
The  glass  is  full,  and  now  my  irlass  is  run  ; 
And  HOW  I  live,  and  now  niv  life  is  done  ' 

CHIDIOCK  TYCHBORN. 


LINES 


G- 


WRITTEN    THE   NIGHT    BEFORE    HIS   EXECUTION. 

E'en  such  is  time  ;  which  takes  on  trust 

(  Mir  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 

And  pays  us  but  \\ it h  earth  and  dust  ; 
Which  in  the  dark  and  .silent  grave, 


-ff 


a- 


614 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


"When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 

Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days  : 

But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 

My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


THE  LIE. 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest, 

Upon  a  thankless  errand  ; 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  Lest, 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant : 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood  ; 
Go,  tell  the  church  it  shows 

What  's  good,  and  doth  no  good. 
If  church  and  court  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates  they  live. 

Acting  by  others'  action, 
Not  loved  unless  they  give, 
Not  strong  but  by  a  faction. 
If  potentates  reply, 
Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 

That  rule  affairs  of  state, 

Their  purpose  is  ambition, 

Their  practice  only  hate. 

And  if  they  once  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most, 

They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who  in  their  greatest  cost, 

Seek  nothing  but  commending. 
And  if  they  make  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion, 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust, 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion, 
Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust  ; 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth, 

Tell  honor  how  it  alters, 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth, 
Tell  I'm  vor  how  it  falters. 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 


Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness  ; 
Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness. 
And  when  they  do  reply, 
Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness, 
Tell  skill  it  is  pretension, 
Tell  charity  of  coldness, 
Tell  law  it  is  contention. 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness, 

Tell  nature  of  decay, 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness, 
Tell  justice  of  delay. 
And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming  ; 
Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  arts  and  schools  reply, 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it  fled  the  city  ; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth  ; 
Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  pity  ; 
Tell,  virtue  least  preferreth. 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing, 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing, 

Yet,  stab  at  thee  who  will, 

No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


LETTERS. 

Every  day  brings  a  ship, 

Every  ship  brings  a  word  ; 

Well  for  those  who  have  no  fear, 

Looking  seaward  well  assured 

That  the  word  the  vessel  brings 

Is  the  word  they  wish  to  hear. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


BRAHMA. 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 


ty- 


& 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


615 


.-a 


Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near  ; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same  ; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear  ; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out ; 
,  When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings  ; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven-; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good  ! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


RETRIBUTION. 

Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly, 
Yet  they  grind  exceeding  small ; 

Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting, 
With  exactness  grinds  he  all. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 


-« ■ 


THE   FUTURE. 

FROM    THE    "  ESSAY    ON    MAN." 

Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state  : 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits 

know  : 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  ? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food, 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
0  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  given, 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heaven  : 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall  ; 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled, 
Ami  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 
Hope  humbly  then  ;  with  trembling  pinions 
ir  ; 
Wail  the  greal  teacher  Death,  and  God  adore. 
Whal  future  Miss,  lie  gives  nut  thee  to  know, 
lmt  gives  th.it  Imp,-  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast  : 
Man  never  is,  bul  always  to  In-  blest. 
Tli.'  soul,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home, 
I:         ind  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 
I. ii,  the  poor  Indian  !  whose  untutored  mind 
:  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind  ; 
His  soui,  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way  ; 


Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind  the  cloud-toppedhill,  an  humbler  heaven ; 
Some  safer  world,  in  depth  of  woods  embraced, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold  : 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire, 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire  ; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


SEVEN   AGES   OF   MAN. 

FROM    "AS   YOU    LIKE   IT." 

All  the  world  's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players  : 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
Then  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.     And  then  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.     Then  a  soldier, 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.   And  then  the  justice, 
In  fair  round  belly  with  good  capon  lined, 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances  ; 
And  so  he  plays  his  part :  the  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon, 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side  ; 
His  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank  ;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound.      Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion,  — 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


PROCRASTINATION. 

Be  wise  to-day  ;  't  is  madness  to  defer  ; 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead  ; 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  pushed  out  of  life. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time  ; 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  tied, 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 

<M  man's  miraculous  mistakes  this  bears 
The  palm,  "That  all  men  are  aboul  to  live," 


tf 


a 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


Forever  on  the  brink  of  being  born. 

All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 

They  one  day  shall  not  drivel  :  and  their  pride 

On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise  : 

At  least  their  own  ;  their  future  selves  applaud  : 

How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead  ! 

Time  lodged  in  their  own  hands  is  Folly's  veils  ; 

That  lodged  in  Fate's  to  wisdom  they  consign; 

The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,  they  postpone  : 

'T  is  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool, 

And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 

All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man, 

And  that  through  every  stage.     When  young, 

indeed, 
In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 
Unanxious  for  ourselves,  and  only  wish, 
As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 
At  thirty  man  suspects  himself  a  fool  ; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan  ; 
At  hfty  chides  his  infamous  delay, 
Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve  ; 
In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 
Resolves,  and  re-resolves  ;  then  dies  the  same. 

And  why  ?  Because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves  ; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fate 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sud- 
den dread ; 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air, 
Soon  close  ;  where  passed  the  shaft  no  trace  is 

found. 
As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains, 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel, 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death  ; 
Even  with  the  tender  tears  which  Nature  sheds 
O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. 

Dr.  Edward  Young. 


Defer  not  till  to-morrow  to  be  wise, 
To-morrow's  sun  to  thee  may  never  rise. 

CONGREVE. 


TIME. 


The  bdl  strikes  one  :  we  take  no  note  of  time, 
But  from  its  loss.     To  give  it,  then,  a  tongue, 
Is  wise  in  man.      As  if  an  angel  spoke, 
I  feel  the  solemn  sound.     If  heard  aright, 
It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours  : 
Where  are  they  ?  with  the  years  beyond  the  Hood  ? 
It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch  ; 
How  much  is  to  be  done  !  my  hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down  —  on  what  ?  a  fathomless  abyss  ; 
A  dread  eternity  !  how  surely  mine  ! 
Ami  can  eternity  belong  to  me, 
Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour  ? 


Time  the  supreme  !  —  Time  is  eternity  ; 
Pregnant  with  all  eternity  can  give  ; 
Pregnant  with  all  that  makes  archangels  smile. 
Who  murders  time,  he  crushes  in  the  birth 
A  power  ethereal,  only  not  adored. 

Ah  !  how  unjust  to  nature  and  himself, 
Is  thoughtless,  thankless,  inconsistent  man  ! 
Like  children  babbling  nonsense  in  their  sports, 
We  censure  nature  for  a  span  too  short : 
That  span  too  short,  we  tax  as  tedious  too  ; 
Torture  invention,  all  expedients  tire, 
To  lash  the  lingering  moments  into  speed, 
And  whirl  us  (happy  riddance  !)  from  ourselves. 
Art,  brainless  art !  our  furious  charioteer 
(For  nature's  voice,  unstifled,  would  recall) 
Drives  headlong  towards  the  precipice  of  death  ! 
Death,  most  our  dread  ;  death,  thus  more  dread- 
ful made  : 
0,  what  a  riddle  of  absurdity  ! 
Leisure  is  pain  ;  takes  off  our  chariot  wheels  : 
How  heavily  we  drag  the  load  of  life  ! 
Blessed  leisure  is  our  curse  :  like  that  of  Cain, 
It  makes  us  wander  ;  wander  earth  around 
To  fly  that  tyrant,  thought.     As  Atlas  groaned 
The  world  beneath,  we  groan  beneath  an  hour. 
We  cry  for  mercy  to  the  next  amusement : 
The  next  amusement  mortgages  our  fields  ; 
Slight  inconvenience  !  prisons  hardly  frown, 
From  hateful  time  if  prisons  set  us  free. 
Yet  when  Death  kindly  tenders  us  relief, 
We  call  him  cruel  ;  years  to  moments  shrink, 
Ages  to  years.     The  telescope  is  turned. 
To  man's  false  optics  (from  bis  folly  false) 
Time,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides  his  wings, 
And  seems  to  creep,  decrepit  with  his  age  ; 
Behold    him    when   passed   by ;    what   then   is 

seen 
But  his  broad  pinions,  swifter  than  the  winds? 
And  all  mankind,  in  contradiction  strong, 
Rueful,  aghast  !  cry  out  on  his  career. 

Ye  well  arrayed  !  ye  lilies  of  our  land  ! 
Ye  lilies  male  !  who  neither  toil  nor  spin  ; 
(As  sister-lilies  might  ;)  if  not  so  wise 
As  Solomon,  more  sumptuous  to  the  sight ! 
Ye  delicate  ;  who  nothing  can  support, 
Yourselves  most  insupportable  !  for  whom 
The  winter  rose  must  blow,  the  sun  put  on 
A  brighter  beam  in  Leo  ;  silky-soft 
Favonius  !  breathe  still  softer,  or  be  chid  ; 
And  other  worlds  send  odors,  sauce,  and  song, 
And  robes,  and  notions,  framed  in  foreign  looms  ! 
0  ye  Lorenzos  of  our  age  !  who  deem 
One  moment  unamused  a  misery 
Not  made  for  feeble  man  !  who  call  aloud 
For  every  bawble  drivelled  o'er  by  sense  ; 
For  rattles  and  conceits  of  every  cast, 
For  change  of  follies  and  relays  of  joy, 


HARVEST     TIME. 

"  And  summer's  green,  all  girded  up  in  sheaves, 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  beard." 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


ft 


617 


To  drag  you  patient  through  the  tedious  length 
Of  a  short  winter's  day,  —  say,  sages  !  say, 
Wit's  oracles  !  say,  dreamers  of  gay  dreams  ! 
How  will  you  weather  an  eternal  night 
Where  such  expedients  fail  ? 


dr.  Edward  Young. 


NEW  YEAR'S   EVE. 

Rixo  out,  wild  hells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light ; 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new  ; 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  ; 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 
Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

"With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
King  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 
King  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

liiug  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the,  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


WHEN   I   DO   COUNT  THE   CLOCK. 


Whem  1  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time, 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous  night ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 
And    able  curls  all  silvered  o'er  with  while  ; 
When  lofty  trees  I  Nee  barren  of  leaves, 
Which  ersl  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 

And  Mil sr's  green,  all  girded  up  in  sheaves, 

Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  beard  ; 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 


That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go, 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  forsake, 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow  ; 

And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make 

defence, 
Save  breed,  to  brave  him  when  he  takes  thee 
hence. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


TIME. 


Gather  ye  rosebuds  as  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying  ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he  \s  a  getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he  's  to  setting. 

The  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer  ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Time  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry  ; 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


TOO   LATE   I   STAYED. 

Too  late  I  stayed,  — forgive  the  crime  ! 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  : 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  flowers  ! 

And  who,  with  clear  account,  remarks 

The  ebbings  of  his  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass  ? 

0,  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  swiftness  brings, 

"When  birds  of  paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  to  Ins  wings  ? 

William  R.  Spencer 


WHAT   IS   TIME? 

1  ASKED  an  aged  man,  with  hoary  hairs. 
Wrinkled  and  curved  with  worldly  cares  : 
"Time  is  the  warp  of  life,"  said  he  ;   "0,  tell 
The  young,  the  fair,  the  gay,  to  weave  it  well!" 


<& 


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618 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND    REFLECTION. 


•a 


I  asked  the  ancient,  venerable  dead, 

Sages  who  wrote,  and  warriors  who  bled  : 

From  the  cold  grave  a  hollow  murmur  flowed, 

"Time  sowed  the  seed  we  reap  in  this  abode  !  " 

I  asked  a  dying  sinner,  ere  the  tide 

Of  life  had  left  his  veins  :   "  Time  !  "  he  replied  ; 

"  I  've  lost  it  !  ah,  the  treasure  !  "  —  and  he  died. 

I  asked  the  golden  sun  and  silver  spheres, 

Those  bright  chronometers  of  days  and  years  : 

They  answered,  "  Time  is  but  a  meteor  glare," 

And  bade  me  for  eternity  prepare. 

I  asked  the  Seasons,  in  their  annual  round, 

Which  beautify  or  desolate  the  ground  ; 

And  thej'  replied  (no  oracle  more  wise), 

"'TisFolly'sblank,  and  Wisdom'shighestprize !" 

I  asked  a  spirit'  lost,  —  but  0  the  shriek 

That  pierced  my  soul  !  I  shudder  while  I  speak. 

It  cried,  "A  particle  !  a  speck  !  a  mite 

Of  endless  years,  duration  infinite  !  " 

Of  things  inanimate  my  dial  I 

Consulted,  and  it  made  me  this  reply,  — 

' '  Time  is  the  season  fair  of  living  well, 

The  path  of  glory  or  the  path  of  hell." 

I  asked  my  Bible,  and  methinks  it  said, 

' '  Time  is  the  present  hour,  the  past  has  fled  ; 

Live  !  live  to-day  !  to-morrow  never  yet 

On  any  human  being  rose  or  set." 

I  asked  old  Father  Time  himself  at  last ; 

But  in  a  moment  he  flew  swiftly  past, 

His  chariot  was  a  cloud,  the  viewless  wind 

His  noiseless  steeds,  which  left  no  trace  behind. 

I  asked  the  mighty  angel  who  shall  stand 

One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  solid  land  : 

"Mortal  !  "  he  cried,  " the  mystery  now  is  o'er  ; 

Time  was,  Time  is,  but  Time  shall  be  no  more  !  " 

MARSDEN. 


FOOL   MORALIZING   ON   TIME. 


AS  YOU    LIKE    IT. 


Jaqites.       "  Good  morrow,    fool,"    quoth    I. 
"  No,  sir,"  quoth  he, 
"  Call  me  not  fool,  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  for- 
tune." 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 
And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye, 
Says  very  wisely,  "  It  is  ten  o'clock  : 
'Inns  may  we  see, "  quoth  he, ' '  how  the  world  wags  ; 
'T  is  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  was  nine  ; 
And  after  one  hour  more  't  will  be  eleven  ; 
And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and  ripe, 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot ; 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale."     When  I  did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep  contemplative  ; 


And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission, 

An  hour  by  his  dial.  —  0  noble  fool  ! 

A  worthy  fool  !  —  Motley  's  the  only  wear. 

Duke  S.  What  fool  is  this  ? 

Jaques.  0  worthy  fool !  —  One  that  hath  been 

a  courtier ; 

And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young  and  fair, 

They  have  the  gift  to  know  it :  and  in  his  brain — 

Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 

After  a  voyage  —  he  hath  strange  places  crammed 

With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 

In  mangled  forms. 

Shakespeare. 


THE  JESTER'S   SERMON. 

The  Jester  shook  his  hood  and  bells,  and  leaped 
upon  a  chair, 

The  pages  laughed,  the  women  screamed,  and 
tossed  their  scented  hair  ; 

The  falcon  whistled,  staghounds  bayed,  the  lap- 
dog  barked  without, 

The  scullion  dropped  the  pitcher  brown,  the  cook 
railed  at  the  lout  ! 

The  steward,  counting  out  his  gold,  let  pouch  and 
money  fall, 

And  why  ?  because  the  Jester  rose  to  say  grace  in 
the  hall ! 

The   page  played   with  the  heron's  plume,  the 

steward  with  his  chain, 
The  butlerdrummedupon  the  board,  and  laughed 

with  might  and  main  ; 
The  grooms  beat  on  their  metal  cans,  and  roared 

till  they  were  red, 
But  still  the  Jester  shut  his  eyes  and  rolled  his 

witty  head  ; 
And  when  the}7  grew  a  little  still,  read  half  a  yard 

of  text, 
And,  waving  hand,    struck  on  the  desk,  then 

frowned  like  one  perplexed. 

"  Dear  sinners  all,"  the  fool  began,  "man's  life 

is  but  a  jest, 
A  dream,  a  shadow,  bubble,  air,  a  vapor  at  the  best, 
In  a  thousand  pounds  of  law  I  find  not  a  single 

ounce  of  love  ; 
A  blind  man  killed  the  parson's  cow  in  shooting 

at  the  dove  ; 
The  fool  that  eats  till  he  is  sick  must  fast  till  he 

is  well ; 
The  wooer  who  can  flatter  most  will  bear  away 

the  belle. 

"  Let  no  man  halloo  he  is  safe  till  he  is  through 

the  wood  ; 
He  who  will  not  when  he  may,  must  tarry  when 

he  should. 


t&- 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


619 


ft 


He  who  laughs  at  crooked  men  should  need  walk 

very  straight  ; 
0,  he  who  once  has  won  a  name  may  lie  abed 

till  eight ! 
Make  haste  to  purchase  house  and  land,  be  very 

slow  to  wed  ; 
True  coral  needs  no  painter's  brush,  nor  need  be 

daubed  with  red. 

"The  friar,  preaching,  cursed  the  thief  (the  pud- 
ding in  his  sleeve). 
To  fish  for  sprats  with  golden  hooks  is  foolish,  by 

your  leave,  — 
To  travel  well,  —  an  ass's  ears,  ape's  face,  hog's 

mouth,  and  ostrich  legs. 
He  does  not  care  a  pin  for  thieves  who  limps 

about  and  begs. 
Be  always  first  man  at  a  feast  and  last  man  at  a 

fray  ; 
The  short  way  round,  in  spite  of  all,  is  still  the 

longest  way. 
"When  the  hungry  curate  licks  the  knife,  there 's 

not  much  for  the  clerk  ; 
When  the  pilot,  turning  pale  and  sick,  looks  up 

—  the  storm  grows  dark." 

Then  loud  they  laughed,  the  fat  cook's  tears  ran 

down  into  the  pan  : 
The  steward  shook,  that  he  was  forced  to  drop 

the  brimming  can  ; 
And  then  again  the  women  screamed,  and  every 

staghound  bayed,  — 
And   why  ?  because  the  motley  fool  so  wise  a 

sermon  made. 

c.  w.  THORNBURY. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing  : 
Toll  ye  the  church -bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still  :  he  doth  not  move  : 

lb'  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'cm  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ; 

So  long  as  you  have  licen  with  us, 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 


He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim  ; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  hi  nd  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 

"We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he  '11  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  h'.s  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 

Andthe  New  year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend. 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  burns  low  : 
'T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands  before  you  die. 

Old  year,'  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you  : 

"What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 

Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone, 

Close  up  his  eyes :  tie  up  his  chin  : 

Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 

That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There  's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE   DOORSTEP. 

The  conference-meeting  through  at  last, 
"We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 

To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past 
Like  snowbirds  willing  to  be  mated. 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 
By  level  musket-flashes  litten, 

Than  I,  who  stepped  before  them  all, 
Who  longed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 

But  no  ;  she  blushed,  ami  took  my  arm  ! 

We  l't  the  old  folks  have  the  highway, 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Farm 

Along  a  kind  of  lover's  by-way. 


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a 


I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 

'T  was  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story  ; 

Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 

The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming  ; 

By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet, 
Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was  beaming. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff  — 

0  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould  it !  — 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 

'T  was  love  and  fear  and  triumph  blended. 

At  last  we  reached  the  foot- worn  stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home  ; 

Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fingered, 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 

Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lingered. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood, 

And  with  a  "Thank  you,  Ned,"  dissembled, 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 

With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it, 

Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 

"  Come,  now  or  never  !  do  it !  do  it/" 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 

The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 
But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 

Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth  —  I  kissed  her  ! 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  love,  yet  still, 

0  listless  woman,  weary  lover  ! 

To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wijd  thrill 

1  'd  give  —     But  who  can  live  youth  over  ? 

Edmund  clarence  stedman. 


It  is  her  thirtieth  birthday  !     With  a  sigh 

Her  soul  hath  turned  from  youth's  luxuriant 
bowers, 
And  her  heart  taken  up  the  last  sweet  tie 

That  measured  out  its  links  of  golden  hours  ! 
She  feels  her  inmost  soul  within  her  stir 

With   thoughts  too   wild  and  passionate  to 
speak  ; 
Yet  her  full  heart  —  its  own  interpreter  — 

Translates  itself  in  silence  on  her  cheek. 

Joy's  opening  buds,  affection's  glowing  flowers, 

Once  lightly  sprang  within  her  beaming  track  ; 
0,  life  was  beautiful  in  those  lost  hours  ! 

And  yet  she  does  not  wish  to  wander  back  ; 
No  !  she  but  loves  in  loneliness  to  think 

On  pleasures  past,  though  nevermore  to  be  ; 
Hope  links  her  to  the  future,  —  but  the  link 

That  binds  her  to  the  past  is  memory. 

AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 


THE  OLD   MAID. 

Why  sits  she  thus  in  solitude  ?     Her  heart 

Seems  melting  in  her  eyes'  delicious  blue  ; 
And  as  it  heaves,  her  ripe  lips  lie  apart, 

As  if  to  let  its  heavy  throbbings  through  ; 
In  her  dark  eye  a  depth  of  softness  swells, 

Deeper  than  that  her  careless  girlhood  wore  ; 
Ami  her  cheek  crimsons  with  the  hue  that  tells 

The  rich,  fair  fruit  is  ripened  to  the  core. 


THE  PETRIFED  FERN. 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 

Grew  a  little  fern-leaf,  green  and  slender, 
Veining  delicate  and  fibres  tender  ; 

Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down  so  low. 
Rushes  tall,  and  moss,  and  grass  grew  round  it, 
Playful  sunbeams  darted  in  and  found  it, 
Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night,  and  crowned  it, 
But  no  foot  of  man  e'er  trod  that  way  ; 
Earth  was  young,  and  keeping  holiday. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 

Stately  forests  waved  their  giant  branches, 
Mountains  hurled  their  snowy  avalanches, 

Mammoth  creatures  stalked  across  the  plain  ; 
Nature  revelled  in  grand  mysteries, 
But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these, 
Did  not  number  with  the  hills  and  trees  ; 
Only  grew  and  waved  its  wild  sweet  way, 
None  ever  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 

Earth  one  time  put  on  a  frolic  mood, 

Heaved  the  rocks  and  changed  the  mighty  mo- 
tion 

Of  the  deep,  strong  currents  of  the  ocean  ; 
Moved  the  plain  and  shook  the  haughty  wood, 

Crushed  the  little  fern  in  soft  moist  clay,  — 

Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away. 

0  the  long,  long  centuries  since  that  day  ! 

0  the  agony  !  0  life's  bitter  cost, 

Since  that  useless  little  fern  was  lost ! 

Useless  ?    Lost  ?    There  came  a  thoughtful  man 
Searching  Nature's  secrets,  far  and  deep  ; 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


621 


•a 


From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 
He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  there  ran 
Fairy  pencillings,  a  quaint  design, 
Veinings,  leafage,  fibres  clear  and  fine, 
And  the  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line  ! 
So,  I  think,  God  hides  some  souls  away, 
Sweetly  to  surprise  us,  the  last  day. 


ANONYMOUS. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she^  speaks 
A  various  language  :  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart, 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  aro*nd  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice,  —  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
When-  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thyimage.  Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again  ; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements  ; 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yd  lmt  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
h  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  —  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  Bepulchre.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;  the  vales 
rig  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 

venerable  w Is  ;  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 

That  make    the    meadows   green  ;    and,    poured 

round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  .solemn  decorations  all 


Of  the  great  tomb  of  man  !     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings,  —  yet  the  dead  are  there  ! 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep,  — the  dead  reign  there  alone  ! 
So  shalt  thou  rest  ;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
AVill  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall 

come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged   to   his   dungeon,  but,  sustained   and 

soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 
William  Cullbn  Bryant. 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS  TO   COME. 

Who  '11  press  for  gold  this  crowded  street, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
Who'll  tread  yon  church  with  willing  feet, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
Pale,  trembling  age  and  fiery  youth, 
And  childhood  with  his  brow  of  truth, 
The  rich  and  poor,  on  land,  on  sea. 
Where  will  the  mighty  millions  be, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 

We  all  within  our  graves  shall  Bleep, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ; 
No  living  soul  for  us  will  weep, 

A  hundred  years  to  come. 


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POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


But  other  men  our  land  will  till, 
And  others  then  our  streets  will  fill, 
And  other  words  will  sing  as  gay, 
And  bright  the  sunshine  as  to-day, 
A  hundred  years  to  come. 


ANONYMOUS. 


NEWPORT  BEACH. 

Wave  after  wave  successively  rolls  on 

And  dies  along  the  shore,  until  more  loud 

One  billow  with  concentrate  force  is  heard 

To  swell  prophetic,  and  exultant  rears 

A  lucent  form  above  its  pioneers, 

And  rushes  past  them  to  the  farthest  goal. 

Thus  our  unuttered  feelings  rise  and  fall, 

And  thought  will  follow  thought  in  equal  waves, 

Until  reflection  nerves  design  to  will, 

Or  sentiment  o'er  chance  emotion  reigns, 

And  all  its  wayward  undulations  blends 

In  one  o'erwhelming  surge  ! 

Henry  Theodore  Tuckerman. 


TO   A   SKELETON. 

IThe  MSS.  of  this  poem,  which  appeared  during  the  first  quarter 
of  the  present  century,  was  said  to  have  been  found  in  the  Museum 
of  the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons,  in  London,  near  a  perfect  hu- 
man skeleton,  and  to  have  been  sent  by  the  curator  to  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle  for  publication.  It  excited  so  much  attention  that 
every  effort  was  made  to  discover  the  author,  and  a  responsible 
party  went  so  far  as  to  offer  a  reward  of  fifty  guineas  for  informa- 
tion that  would  discover  its  origin.  The  author  preserved  his  in- 
cognito, apd,  we  believe,  has  never  been  discovered.] 

Behold  this  ruin  !  'T  was  a  skull 
Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full. 
This  narrow  cell  was  Life's  retreat, 
This  space  was  Thought's  mysterious  seat. 
What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot, 
What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot  ? 
Nor  hope,  nor  joy,  nor  love,  nor  fear, 
Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye, 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void,  — 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed, 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed, 

That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 

When  stars  and  sun  are  sunk  in  night. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 

The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue  ; 

II  Falsehood's  honey  it  disdained, 

And  when  it  could  not  praise  was  chained  ; 

If  bold  in  Virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke,  — 

This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 

When  Time  unveils  Eternity  ! 


Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine  ? 
Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine  ? 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  a  gem 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them. 
But  if  the  page  of  Truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  Wealth  and  Fame. 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod  ? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  Ease  they  fled, 
To  seek  Affliction's  humble  shed  ; 
If  Grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  Virtue's  cot  returned,  — 
These  feet  with  angel  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky  ! 

Anonymous. 


ODE. 

INTIMATIONS   of  immortality  from   recollections 
of  early  childhood. 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light,  — 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  : 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 

II. 
The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

m. 
Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief ; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong. 
The   cataracts   blow    their  trumpets   from    the 

steep,  — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong. 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng  ; 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity  ; 


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POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


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G23 


And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ;  — 
Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  shepherd  boy  ! 

IV. 

Ye  blessed  creatures  !  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal,  — 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel,  I  feel  it  all. 

0  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 
"While  earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May  morning, 
And  the  children  are  culling 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm,  — 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  !  — 
But  there  's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 

A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon,  — 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  ; 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat. 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
"Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

V. 
Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  ; 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar. 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Dpi  in  the  growing  boy  ; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, — 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 
The  youth  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Mu-t  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 

An!  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  : 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI. 

Earth  fills  her  hip  with  pleasures  of  her  own. 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind  ; 
And  even  with  something  "fa  mother's  mind, 
And  mi  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 


Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

VII. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses,  — 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pygmy  size  ! 
See,  where  mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 
See  at  his  feet  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly  learned  art,  — 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral,  — 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song. 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part,  — 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage  " 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity  ! 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage  !  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind  !  — 
Mighty  prophet  !  Seer  blest, 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ! 
Thou  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by  ! 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

IX. 

0  joy  I  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yel  remembers 

What  was  SO  fugitive  ! 
The  thoughl  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not,  indeed, 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest,  — 


<&- 


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a- 


G24 


POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT   AND   REFLECTION. 


Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With    new-fledged   hope  still   fluttering  in   his 
breast,  — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised,  — 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing, 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never,  — 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither,  — 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

X. 

Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  I 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so 
bright 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower,  — 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be  ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering  ; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI. 

And  0  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves. 


Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they  ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 

Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 

That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears,  — 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

William  Wordsworth. 


SOLILOQUY:    ON   IMMORTALITY. 

SCENE.  —  CATO  sitting  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  with  Plato's  book 
on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul  in  his  hand,  and  a  drawn  sword 
on  the  table  by  him. 

It  must  be  so.  —  Plato,  thou  reasonest  well  ! 
Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality  ? 
Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror, 
Of  falling  into  naught  ?   Why  shrinks  the  soul 
Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 
'T  is  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ; 
'T  is  Heaven  itself,  that  points  out  a  hereafter, 
And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

Eternity  !  — thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 
Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 
Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we 

pass ! 
The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me  ; 
But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 
Here  will  I  hold.     If  there  's  a  Power  above  us 
(And  that  there  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 
Through  allher  works),  he  must  delightin  virtue ; 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy. 
But  when  ?  or  where  ?   This  world  was  made  for 

Caesar. 
I  'm  weary  of  conjectures,  —  this  must  end  them. 
[Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

Thus  am  I  doubly  armed  :  my  death  and  life, 
My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me. 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end  ; 
But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  sink  in  years ; 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 
Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crash  of  worlds  ! 

Joseph  Addison. 


t& 


POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


625 


a 


QUATRAINS  AND    FRAGMENTS. 

FROM    R.    W.   EMERSON. 

NORTHMAN. 

The  gale  that  wrecked  you  on  the  sand, 

It  helped  my  rowers  to  row  ; 
The  storm  is  my  best  galley-hand, 

And  drives  me  where  I  go. 

POET. 

To  clothe  the  fiery  thought 

In  simple  words  succeeds, 
For  still  the  craft  of  genius  is 

To  mask  a  king  in  weeds. 

JUSTICE. 
"Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls, 
Justice  conquers  evermore, 
Justice  after  as  before,  — 
And  he  who  battles  on  her  side, 
God,  though  he  were  ten  times  slain, 
Crowns  him  victor  glorified,  — 
Victor  over  death  and  pain, 
Forever. 

HEROISM. 
So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 
So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must, 
The  youth  replies,  T  can. 

THE  SEA. 

Behold  the  Sea, 
The  opaline,  the  plentiful  and  strong, 
Yet  beautiful  as  is  the  rose  in  June, 
Fresh  as  the  trickling  rainbow  of  July  : 
Sea  full  of  food,  the  nourisher  of  kinds, 
Purger  of  earth,  and  medicine  of  men  ; 
Creating  a  sweet  climate  by  my  breath, 
Washing  out  harms  and  griefs  from  memory, 
And,  in  my  mathematic  ebb  and  flow, 
Giving  a  hint  of  that  which  changes  not. 
Rich  are  the  sea-gods:  — who  gives  gifts  but  they? 
Theygropethe  sea  for  pearls,  but  more  than  pearls  : 
They  pluck  Force  thence,  and  give  it  to  the  wise. 
For  every  wave  is  wealth  to  Dredalus, 
Wealth  to  the  cunning  artist  who  can  work 
This  matchless  strength.     Where  shall  he  find, 

0  waves  ! 
A  load  your  Atlas  shoulders  cannot  lift  ? 
I  with  my  hammer  pounding  evermore 
The  rocky  const,  Bmite  Andes  into  dust, 
Strewing  my  bed,  and,  in  another  age, 
Rebuild  a  continent  of  better  men. 
Then  |  miliar  the  doors  :  my  paths  lead  out 
The  exodus  of  nations  :  I  disperse 
Men  to  all  shores  tint  fronl  the  hoary  main. 


BORROWING. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH. 


Some  of  your  hurts  you  have  cured, 

And  the  sharpest  you  still  have  survived, 

But  what  torments  of  grief  you  endured 
From  evils  which  never  arrived  ! 


HERI,   CRAS,    HODIE. 

Shines  the  last  age,  the  next  with  hope  is  seen, 
To-day  slinks  poorly  off  unmarked  between  ; 
Future  or  Past  no  richer  secret  folds, 
0  friendless  Present  1  than  thy  bosom  holds. 


LINES  AND  COUPLETS. 


FROM    POPE. 


What,  and  how  great  the  virtue  and  the  art, 
To  live  on  little  with  a  cheerful  heart. 


Between  excess  and  famine  lies  a  mean, 

Plain,  but  not  sordid,  though  not  splendid,  clean. 


Its  proper  power  to  hurt  each  creature  feels  : 
Bulls  aim  their  horns,  and  asses  kick  their  heels. 


Here  "Wisdom  calls,  "Seek  virtue  first,  heboid  ; 
As  gold  to  silver,  virtue  is  to  gold." 


Let  lands  and  houses  have  what  lords  they  will, 
Let  us  be  fixed  and  our  own  masters  still. 


'T  is  the  first  virtue  vices  to  abhor, 
And  the  first  wisdom  to  be  fool  no  more. 


Long  as  to  him  who  works  for  debt,  the  day. 

Not  to  go  back  is  somewhat  to  advance, 

And  men  must  walk,  at  least,  before  they  dance. 


True,  conscious  honor  is  to  feel  no  sin  ; 

He  's  armed  without  that 's  innocent  within. 


For  virtue's  self  may  too  much  zeal  be  bad, 
The  worst  of  madmen  is  a  saint  run  mad. 


If  wealth  alone  can  make  and  keep  us  blest, 
Still,  still  be  getting  ;  never,  never  rest. 


That  God  of  nature  who  within  us  still 
Inclines  our  actions,  not  constrains  our  will. 


It  is  not  poetry,  but  prose  run  mad. 

Pretty  in  amber  to  observe  the  forms 
Of  hair,  or  straws,  or  dirt,  or  grubs,  or  worms  : 
The  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare, 
But  wonder  how  the  mtechiei  they  got  there  ! 


-tt- 


-ff 


626 


rOEMS   OF   SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 


-a 


Do  good  by  stealth,  and  blush  to  find  it  fame. 

Curst  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow, 
That  tends  to  make  one  honest  man  my  foe. 


"Who  shames  a  scribbler  ?      Break   one    cobweb 

through, 
He  spins  the  slight,  self-pleasing  thread  anew  ; 
Destroy  his  fib  or  sophistry,  in  vain, 
The  creature 's  at  his  dirty  work  again, 
Throned  in  the  centre  of  his  thin  designs, 
Proud  of  a  vast  extent  of  flimsy  lines. 


He  who,  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft, 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left. 


What  future  bliss  He  gives  thee  not  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 


All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee, 

All  chance,  direction  which  thou  canst  not  see. 


'T  is  education  forms  the  common  mind  ; 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree 's  inclined. 


Manners  with  fortunes,  humors  turn  with  climes, 
Tenets  with  books,  and  principles  with  times. 


Know  then  this  truth,  enough  for  man  to  know, 
Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below. 


Happier  as  kinder  in  whate'er  degree, 
And  height  of  bliss  but  height  of  charity. 


If  then  to  all  men  happiness  was  meant^ 
God  in  externals  could  not  place  content. 


Order  is  Heaven's  first  law,  and,  this  confest, 
Some  are,  and  must  be,  greater  than  the  rest. 


Reason's  whole  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of  sense, 
Lie  in  three  words,  —  health,  peace,  and  compe- 
tence. 
But  health  consists  with  temperance  alone, 
And  peace,  0  Virtue  !  peace  is  all  thine  own. 


Fortune  her  gifts  may  variously  dispose, 
And  these  be  happy  called,  unhappy  those  ; 
But  Heaven's  just  balance  equal  will  appear, 
When  those  are  placed  in  hope,  and  these  in  fear. 

"  But  sometimes  virtue  starves,  while  vice  is  fed  "  ; 
"What  then,  is  the  reward  of  virtue,  —  bread  ? 
That  vice  may  merit,  't  is  the  price  of  toil, 
The  knave  deserves  it  when  he  tills  the  soil." 


Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree  ? 


And  then  mistook  reverse  of  wrong  for  right. 


That  secret  rare  between  the  extremes  to  move, 
Of  mad  good-nature  and  of  mean  self-love. 


Ye  little  stars,  hide  your  diminished  rays. 


Who  builds  a  church  to  God,  and  not  to  fame, 
Will  never  mark  the  marble  with  his  name. 


'T  is  strange  the  music  should  his  cares  employ 
To  gain  those  riches  he  can  ne'er  enjoy. 


Something  there  is  more  needful  than  expense, 
And  something  previous  e'en  to  taste,  — 't  is  sense. 


In  all  let  Nature  never  be  forgot, 
But  treat  the  goddess  like  a  modest  fair, 
Not  over-dress  nor  leave  her  wholly  bare  ; 
Let  not  each  beauty  everywhere  be  spied, 
Where  half  the  skill  is  decently  to  hide. 


Light  rjuirks  of  music,  broken  and  uneven, 
Make  the  soul  dance  upon  a  jig  to  heaven. 


'Tis  use  alone  that  sanctifies  expense, 

And  splendor  borrows  all  her  rays  from  sense. 

To  rest  the  cushion  and  soft  dean  invite, 
Who  never  mentions  hell  to  ears  polite. 


And  knows  where  faith,  law,  morals,  all  began, 
All  end,  —  in  love  of  God  and  love  of  man. 


What  nothing  earthly  gives  or  can  destroy,  — 
The  soul's  calm  sunshine,  and  the  heartfelt  joy. 


Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise  ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies. 


Who  wickedly  is  wise,  or  madly  brave, 
Is  but  the  more  a  fool,  the  more  a  knave. 


Who  noble  ends  by  noble  means  obtains, 
Or,  failing,  smiles  in  exile  or  in  chains, 
Like  good  Aurelius  let  him  reign,  or  bleed 
Like  Socrates,  that  man  is  great  indeed. 


What 's  fame  ?    A  fancied  life  in  others'  breath. 


One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers  and  of  loud  huzzas. 

As  heaven's  blest  beam  turns  vinegar  more  sour. 


Lust  through  some  certain  strainers  well  refined 
Is  gentle  love,  and  charms  all  womankind. 


Vice  is  a  monster  of  such  hideous  mien 
That  to  be  hated  needs  but  to  be  seen  ; 
Yet  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace. 


Behold  the  child,  by  Nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw  ; 
Some  livelier  plaything  gives  his  youth  delight, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite. 


W 


POEMS  OF  FANCY 


■a 


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Eh- 


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POEMS    OF  FANCY. 


FANCY. 

FROM    "THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE." 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes, 
"With  gazing  fed  ;  and  Fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  Fancy's  knell ; 

I  '11  begin  it,  —Ding,  dong,  bell 

Ding,  dong,  bell. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


THE   REALM  OF   FANCY. 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam  ! 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  hubbies  when  rain  pelteth  ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her: 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She  '11  dart  forth,  and  eloudward  soar. 

0  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  ; 

Autumn's  red-lipped  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 
Cloys  with  tasting  :  What  do  then? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  fagot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night  ; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  plough-boy'a  heavy  Bhoon  ; 

When  the  Nighl  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit   thee  there,  : 1 1 1 •  1  semi  abroad 

With  a  mind  self-overawed 


Fancy,  high-commissioned  ;  —  send  her  I 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her  ; 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather  ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray  » 

All  the  heaped  autumn's  wealth, 

"With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  : 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it ;  —  thou  shalt  heai 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear  ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  ; 

And  in  the  same  moment  —  hark  ! 

'T  is  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 

White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  ahvay 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May  ; 

And  every  leaf  ami  every  flower 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

fast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nesl  ; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 

"When  the  beehive  easts  its  swarm  ; 

Acorns  ripe  down-pattering 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

0  sweet  Fancy  '  lei  her  loose  ; 
Everything  is  spoilt  by  use  j 
Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Where's  the  maid 


Too  much  gazed  at  I 


— ff 


a- 


630 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 

"Where  's  the  eye,  however  blue, 

Doth  not  weary  ?     Where  's  the  face 

One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 

Where  's  the  voice,  however  soft, 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

Let  then  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind  ; 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide  ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid.  —  Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she  '11  bring  : 

Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam  ! 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 

John  Keats. 


IMAGINATION. 

FROM    "PLEASURES   OF    IMAGINATION." 

0  blest  of  heaven,  whom  not   the   languid 
songs 
Of  luxury,  the  siren  !  not  the  bribes 
Of  sordid  wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  honor,  can  seduce  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  which  from  the  store 
Of  nature  fair  imagination  culls 
To  charm  the  enlivened  soul !    What  though  not 

all 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  heights 
Of  envied  life  ;  though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state  ; 
Yet  nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just, 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state, 
Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 
Will  deign  to  use  them.     His  the  city's  pomp, 
The  rural  honors  his.     Whate'er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch, 
The  breathing  marble  and  the  sculptured  gold 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him  the  Spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds  ;  for  him  the  hand 
Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like  the  morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings  ; 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk, 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Not  a  breeze 


Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasure,  unreproved.   Nor  thence  partakes 
Fresh  pleasure  only  ;  for  the  attentive  mind, 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 
Becomes  herself  harmonious  :  wont  so  oft 
On  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 
Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 
To  find  a  kindred  order,  to  exert 
Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 
This  fair-inspired  delight  :  her  tempered  powers 
Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

Mark  Akenside. 


b- 


A  DREAM  OF   THE  UNKNOWN. 

I  DREAMED  that  as  I  wandered  by  the  way 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  spring, 

And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 

Mixed  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

But  kissed  it  and  then  fled,  as  Thou  mightest  in 
dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
Daisies,  those  pearled  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 

The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 

Faint  ox-lips  ;  tender  bluebells,  at  whose  birth 

The  sod  scarce  heaved  ;  and  that  tall  flower  that 
wets 

Its  mother's  face  with  heaven -collected  tears, 

When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 
Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-colored  May, 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drained  not  by  the  day  ; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,   wandering 
astray  ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streaked  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prankt 
with  white, 

And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 
And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 

Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 
With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery 
light ; 

And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 

As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


631 


■a 


Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 

That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 
Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 

Kept  these  imprisoned  children  of  the  Hours 
Within  my  hand,  —  and  then,  elate  and  gay, 

I  hastened  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come 

That  I  might  there  present  it  —  Oh !  to  Whom  ? 

Percy  Bvsshe  Shelley. 


DRIFTING. 

My  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay  ; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim 

The  mountains  swim  ; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 

With  outstretched  hands, 

The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here  Ischia  smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles  ; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skill 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff ;  - 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  Bwells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  Liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild, 
Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled;  — 


The  airs  I  feel 
Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 
..... 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid  ; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  like  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  Traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows  ;  — 

This  happier  one, 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

0  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip  ! 

0  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  ! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar  ! 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise  ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  read. 


LITTLE    BELL. 

PIPED  the  blackbird  on  the  bcechwood  spray, 
"Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 

What  's  your  name  '.  "  quoth  he,  — 
"  What  'syourname  .'  0,  stop  and  straight  unfold, 
Pretty  maid  with  showery  curls  of  gold."  — 

"  Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sal  down  beneath  the  rocks, 
]  aside  her  gleaming  golden  locks, — 


W 


632 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


-tn 


"  Bonny  bird,"  quoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I  go." 
"Here's  the  very  iinest  song  I  know, 

Little  Bell,"  said  he. 

And  the  blackbird  piped  ;  you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird,  — 

Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  the  bonny  bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  freely  o'er  and  o'er 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped  and  through  the  glade, 
Peeped  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 

And  from  out  the  tree 
Swung,  and  leaped,  and  frolicked,  void  of  fear  ; 
While  bold  blackbird  piped  that  all  might  hear, — 

"Little  Bell,"  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern,  — 
"  Squirrel,  squirrel,  to  your  task  return  ; 

Bring  me  nuts,"  quoth  she. 
Up  away  the  frisky  squirrel  hies,  — 
Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes,  — 

And  adown  the  tree 
Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 
In  the  little  lap  dropped  one  by  one. 
Hark,  how  blackbird  pipes  to  see  the  fun  ! 

"Happy  Bell,"  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade,  — 
"Squirrel,  squirrel,  if  you're  not  afraid, 

Come  and  share  with  me  !  " 
Down  came  squirrel  eager  for  his  fare, 
Down  came  bonny  blackbird,  I  declare  ; 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share,  — 

Ah  the  merry  three  ! 
And  the  while  these  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bough  again, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow 

From  her  blue,  blight  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot  at  close  of  day, 

Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms,  to  pray  ; 

Very  calm  and  clear 
Pose  the  praying  voice  to  where,  unseen, 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 


Paused  awhile  to  hear. 
"  What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
"  That  with  happy  heart  beside  her  bed 

Prays  so  lovingly  ?  " 
Low  and'soft,  O,  very  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

"  Bell,  dear  Bell !  "  crooned  he. 

"Whom  God's  creatures  love,"  the  angel  fair 

Murmured,  "  God  doth  bless  with  angels'  care  ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 

Folded  safe  from  harm.     Love,  deep  and  kind, 

Shall  watch  around  and  leave  good  gifts  behind, 

Little  Bell,  for  thee  !  " 

Thomas  Westwood. 


'-* 


A  VISIT  FROM   ST.    NICHOLAS. 

'T  was   the   night   before   Christmas,  when  all 

through  the  house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse  ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there  : 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums   danced  in  theii 

heads  ; 
And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's 

nap,  — 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 
Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 
The  moon  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow 
Gave  a  lustre  of  midday  to  objects  below  ; 
When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  ap- 
pear, 
But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  reindeer, 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 
More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 
And  he  whistled  and  shouted,  and  called  them 

by  name  : 
"  Now,  Dasher  !   now,    Dancer !   now,  Prancer 

and  Vixen  ! 
On,     Comet  !     on,    Cupid  !    on,    Donder    and 

Blitzen  ! 
To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all  ! " 
As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the 

sky, 
So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys,  —  and  St.  Nicholas 

too. 
And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 


-> 


a- 


POEMS   OF   FANCY, 


633 


■ft 


As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the   chimney  St.   Nicholas   came  with  a 

bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his 

foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes 

and  soot ; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  looked  like  a  pedler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes  how  they  twinkled  !  his  dimples  how 

merry  ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry  ; 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the 

snow. 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  lace  and  a  little  round  belly 
That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowl  full  of 

jelly- 

lb-  was  chubby  and  plump,  — a  rightjollyoldelf ; 
And  I  laughed,  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  my- 
self. 
A  wink  of  his  eye  and  a  twist  of  his  head 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his 

work, 
And  filled  all  the  stockings  ;  then  turned  with  a 

jerk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 
And  giving  a  nod.  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 
He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  (lew  like  tile  down  of  a  thistle  ; 
But  1  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 
"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  andtoallagood-night !" 

CLEMENT  C.   MOORE. 


THE   FROST. 

The  Frost  looked  forth,  one  still,  (dear  night, 
And  he  said,  "  Now  I  shall  be  out  of  sight ; 
So  through  the  valley  and  over  the  height 

In  silence  I  '11  take  my  way. 
I  will  not  go  like  that  blustering  train, 
The  wind  and  tin-  snow,  the  hail  and  the  rain, 
Who  make  so  much  hustle  and  noise  in  vain, 

But  I  '11  he  as  busy  as  they  !  " 

Then  he  went  to  the  mountain,  and  powdered  its 

en    -t, 

lie  climbed  up  the  trees,  and  their  bouglis  he 

dressed 
With  diamonds  and  pearls,  and  over  the  breast 

Of  the  quivering  lake  he  spread 
A  coal  of  mail,  that  it  need  not  tear 
The  downward  point  of  many  a  spear 
That  In  hung  on  its  margin,  far  and  near, 

Where  a  rock  could  rear  its  head. 


He  went  to  the  windows  of  those  who  slept, 
And  over  each  pane  like  a  fairy  crept, 
Wherever  he  breathed,  wherever  he  stepped, 

By  the  light  of  the  moon  were  seen 
Most  beautiful  tilings.     There  were  flowers  and 

trees, 
There  were  bevies  of  birds  and  swarms  of  bees, 
There  were  cities,  thrones,  temples,  and  towers, 

and  these 
All  pictured  in  silver  sheen  ! 

But  he  did  one  thing  that  was  hardly  fair,  — 
He  peep'd  in  the  cupboard,  and,  finding  there 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  him  to  prepare,  — 

'•'  Now,  just  to  set  them  a  thinking, 
I  '11  bite  this  basket  of  fruit,"  said  he  ; 
"This  costly  pitcher  I  '11  burst  in  three, 
And  the  glass  of  water  they  've  left  for  me 

Shall    tchick  J  '  to  tell  them  1  'm  drinking." 

Miss  Gould. 


THE   CLOUD. 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
1  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  birds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain  ; 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  't  is  my  pillow'  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits  ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder  ; 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits. 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea  ; 
Over  the  rills  and  the  crags  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 
And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 

Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 
When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 


ty- 


■ff 


c^ 


634: 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


As,  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag 

"Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle,  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings  ; 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

"Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor 

•  By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  1  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  river,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl  ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridgedike  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  thepowersof  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores  ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  — 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from 
the  tomb, 

I  rise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


FANCY   IN   NUBIBUS. 

0,  it  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 
Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies, 
To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please, 
Or  let  the  easily  persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  quaint  likeness  issuing  from  the  mould 
Of  a  friend's  fancy  ;  or,  with  head  bent  low, 
And  cheek  aslant,  see  rivers  flow  of  gold, 
'Twixt  crimson  banks  ;  and  then  a  traveller  go 
From  mount  to  mount,  through  Cloudland,  gor- 
geous land  ! 
Or,  listening  to  the  tide  with  closed  sight, 
Be  that  blind  Bard,  who  on  the  Chian  strand, 
By  those  deep  sounds  possessed  with  inward  light, 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odysse 
Rise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


ODE  ON  A   GRECIAN  URN. 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness  ! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?  What  maidens 
loath  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?  What  struggles  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?  What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter  ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone. 
Fair  youth  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare. 
Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal,  —  yet  do  not  grieve  : 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy 
bliss  ; 
Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  spring  adieu  ; 
And  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
Forever  panting  and  forever  young  ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  binning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


Q 


-# 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


G35 


tl 


Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  0  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  hy  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  forevermore 

Will  silent  be,  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate  can  e'er  return. 

0  Attic  shape  !  Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
Witli  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 

Thou  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity.      Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  toman,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"  —  that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


THE  SUNKEN  CITY. 

Hark  !  the  faint  bells  of  the  sunken  city 
Peal  once  more  their  wonted  evening  chime  ! 

From  the  deep  abysses  floats  a  ditty, 
Wild  and  wondrous,  of  the  olden  time. 

Temples,  towers,  and  domes  of  many  stories 
There  lie  buried  in  an  ocean  grave,  — 

Undescried,  save  when  their  golden  glories 
Gleam,  at  sunset,  through  the  lighted  wave. 

And  the  mariner  who  had  seen  them  glisten, 
In  whose  ears  those  magic  bells  do  sound, 

Night  by  night  bides  there  to  watch  and  listen, 
Though  death  lurks  behind  each  dark   rock 
round. 

So  tin'  bells  of  memory's  wonder-city 
Peal  for  me  their  old  melodious  chime  ; 

So  my  heart  pours"forth  a  changeful  ditty, 
Sad  and  pleasant,  from  the  bygone  time. 

Dome-  and  towers  nnd  castles,  fancy-builded, 
Thei  ■  lie  losl  to  daylight's  garish  beams, — 

There  lie  hidden  till  unveiled  and  gilded, 
G-l  iry-gilded,  by  my  nightly  dreams! 

And  then  hear  I  music  sweet  apknelling 
From  many  a  well-known  phantom  hand, 

And,  through  tears,  can  Bee  my  natural  dwelling 
Far  ell'  in  the  Bpirit's  luminous  land  ! 

WlL.ni  I.M    MU1  man).     Translation 

of  James  Clarence  Mangan. 


THE   BOWER   OF   BLISS. 

FROM    THE    "  FAERIE   QUEENE." 

There  the  most  daintie  paradise  on  ground 
Itselfe  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye, 
In  which  all  pleasures  plenteously  abownd, 
And  none  does  others  happinesse  envye  ; 
The  painted  flowres ;  the  trees  upshooting  hye ; 
The  dales  for  shade ;  the  hilles  for  breathing 

space ; 
The  trembling  groves ;  thechristall  running  by ; 
And,  that  which  all  faire  workes  doth  most 

aggrace, 
The  art,  which  all  that  wrought,  appeared  in  no 

place. 

One  would  have  thought  (so  cunningly  the  rude 
And  scorned  partes  were  mingled  with  the  fine) 
That  Nature  had  for  wantonesse  ensude 
Art,  and  that  Art  at  Nature  did  repine  ; 
So  striving  each  th'  other  to  undermine, 
Each  did  the  others  worke  more  beautify  ; 
So  diff'ring  both  in  willes  agreed  in  fine  : 
So  all  agreed,  through  sweete  diversity, 
This  gardin  to  adorne  with  all  variety. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountaine  stood, 
Of  richest  substance  that  on  earth  might  bee, 
So  pure  and  shiny  that  the  silver  flood 
Through  every  channell  running  one  mightsee  ; 
Most  goodly  it  with  curious  ymageree 
Was  over-wrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boyes, 
Of  which  some  seemed  with  lively  iollitee 
To  fly  about,  playing  their  wanton  toyes, 
Whylest  others  did  themselves  embay  in  liquid 
ioyes. 

And  over  all  of  purest  gold  was  spred 
A  trayle  of  yvie  in  his  native  hew  ; 
For  the  rich  metall  was  so  coloured, 
That  wight,  who  did  not  well  avis'd  it  vew, 
Would  surely  deeme  it  to  bee  yvie  trew  : 
Low  his  lascivious  armes  adown  did  creepe 
That,  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew 
Their  fleecy  llowres  they  fearefully  did  steepe, 
Which  drops  of  christall  seemed  for  wantones  to 
weep. 

Infinit  streames  continually  did  well 

Out  of  this  fountaine,  sweet  and  faire  to  sec, 

The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell. 

And  shortly  grew  to  s,>  great  quantitie, 

That  like  a  little  lake  it  seemd  to  bee  ; 

Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  hight, 

That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom 

see. 

All  pav'd  beneath  with  iaspar  shining  bright, 
That  seemd  the  fountaine  in  that  sea  did  saylfl 
upright. 


~-ff 


XI 


636 


TOEMS   OF   FANCY. 


Eftsoones  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  daintie  eare, 
Such  as  attonce  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere  : 
Eight  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  heare, 
To  read  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee  ; 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  eare, 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmonee  ; 
Birdes,  voices,  instruments,  windes,  waters,  all 
agree  : 

The  ioyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  chearefull  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet  ; 
Th'  angelicall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmure  of  the  waters  fall  ; 
The  waters  fall,  with  difference  disereet, 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 


THE   CAVE   OF   SLEEP. 

FROM    THE    "  FAERIE    QUEENE." 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deepe, 
To  Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire, 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe, 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peepe, 
His  dwelling  is  ;  there  Tethys  hi    wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynth  a  still  doth  steepe 
In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hed, 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth 
spred. 

And,  more,  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling 

downe, 
And  ever-drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the 

sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard ;  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence,  farre  from  enimyes. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


SIR  CALEPINE   RESCUES   SERENA. 

FROM     THE    "  FAERIE    QUEENE." 

Tho,  when  as  all  things  readie  were  aright, 
The  damzell  was  before  the  altar  set, 
Being  al  readie  dead  with  fearefull  fright  : 
To  whom  the  priest  with  naked  amies  full  net 


Approching  nigh,  and  murdrous  knife  well  whet, 
Gan  mutter  close  a  certaine  secret  charme, 
With  other  divelish  ceremonies  met  : 
Which  doen,  he  gan  aloft  t'  advance  his  arme, 
Whereat  they  shouted  all,  and  made  a  loud  alarme. 

Then  gan  the  bagpypes  and  the  homes  to  shrill 
And  shrieke  aloud,  that,  with  the  people's  voyce 
Confused,  did  the  ayre  with  terror  fill, 
And  made  the  wood  to  tremble  at  the  noyce  : 
Thewhyles  shewayld,  the  more  they  did  reioyce. 
Now  mote  ye  understand  that  to  this  grove 
Sir  Calepine,  by  chaunce  more  then  by  choyce, 
The  selfe  same  evening  fortune  hether  drove, 
As  he  to  seeke  Serena  through  the  woods  did  rove. 

Long  had  he  sought  her,  and  through  many  a 

soyle 
Had  traveld  still  on  foot  in  heavie  armes, 
Ne  ought  was  tyred  with  his  endlesse  toyle, 
Ne  ought  was  feared  of  his  certaine  harmes  : 
And  now,  all  weetlesse  of  the  wretched  stormea 
In  which  his  love  was  lost,  he  slept  full  fast ; 
Till,  being  waked  with  these  loud  alarmes, 
He  lightly  started  up  like  one  aghast, 
And,  catching  up  his  amies,  streight  to  the  noise 

forth  past. 

There  by  th'  uncertaine  glims  of  starry  night, 
And  by  the  twinkling  of  their  sacred  fire, 
He  mote  perceive  a  litle  dawning  sight 
Of  all  which  there  was  doing  in  that  quire  : 
Mongst  whom  a  woman  spoyled  of  all  attire 
He  spyde,  lamenting  her  unluckie  strife, 
And  groning  sore  from  grieved  hart  entire  : 
Eftsoones  he  saw  one  with  a  naked  knife 
Readie  to  launch  her  brest,  and  let  out  loved  life. 

With  that  he  thrusts  into  the  thickest  throng  ; 
And,  even  as  his  right  hand  adowne  descends, 
He  him  preventing  laves  on  earth  along, 
And  sacrifizeth  to  th'  infernall  feends  : 
Then  to  the  rest  his  wrathfull  hand  he  bends ; 
Of  whom  he  makes  such  havocke  and  such  hew, 
That  swarmes  of  damned  soules  to  hell  he  sends : 
The  rest,  that  scape  his  sword'and  death  eschew, 
Fly  like  a  fiocke  of  doves  before  a  faulcons  vew\ 

From  them  returning  to  that  ladie  backe, 
Whom  by  the  altar  he  doth  sitting  find 
Yet  fearing  death,  and  next  to  death  the  lacke 
Of  clothes  to  cover  what  they  ought  by  kind  ; 
He  first  her  hands  beginneth  to  unbind, 
And  then  to  question  of  her  present  woe  ; 
And  afterwards  to  cheare  with  speaches  kind  : 
But  she,  for  nought  that  he  could  say  or  doe, 
One  word  durst  speake,  or  answere  him  a  whit 
thereto. 


qa- 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


637 


So  inward  shame  of  her  uncomely  case 

She  did  conceive,  through  care  of  womanhood, 

That  though  the  night  did  cover  her  disgrace, 

Yet  she  in  so  unwomanly  a  mood 

Would  not  bewray  the  state  in  which  she  stood 

So  all  that  night  to  him  unknowen  she  past  : 

Hut  day,  that  doth  discover  bad  and  good, 

Ensewing,  made  her  knowen  to  him  at  last : 

The  end  whereof  lie  keepe  untill  another  cast. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


UNA  AND   THE  LION. 

FROM     THE     "FAERIE     QUEENE." 

One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrkesome  way, 
From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  alight  ; 
And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  mens  sight ; 
From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  layd  her  stole  aside.     Her  angels  face, 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shyned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  ; 
Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddeinly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood  : 
Soone  as  the  royall  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  month  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  attonce  devourd  her  tender  corse  ; 
Rut  to  the  pray  whenas  he  drew  more  ny, 
His  bloody  rage  aswaged  with  remorse, 
And,  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious  forsc. 

Instead  thereof,  he  kist  her  wearie  feet, 
And  liekt  Iter  lillv  hands  with  fawnins  tons  : 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
0  how  can  beautie  maister  the  most  strong. 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong  ! 
Whose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submission, 
Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked  long, 
Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion  ; 
And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

"Tin-  lyon,  lord  of  everie  beast  in  field, 
Quoth  she,  "his  princely  puissance  doth  abate, 
And  mightie  proud  to  humble  weake  does  yield, 
Forgetfull  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  prickt,  in  pittie  of  my  sad  estate  :  — 
Hut  he,  my  lyon,  and  my  noble  lord, 
ll"\v  does  In-  find  in  cruell  hart  to  hate 
Her,  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  adord 
ka  the  god  of  my  life  t  why  hath  he  mi'  abhordf" 

Redoundingtearsdidchoketh'endofherplaint, 
"W  hich  Boftlyecchoed  from  the  neighbourwood ; 

And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful]  constraint, 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood  ; 


With  pittie  calmd,  downe  fell  his  angry  mood. 
At  last,  in  close  hart  shutting  up  her  payne, 
Arose  the  virgin  borne  of  heavenly  brood, 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  agayne, 
To  seeke  herstrayed  champion  if  she  mightattayne. 

The  lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 
Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  faythfull  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard  : 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and 

ward  ; 
And,  when  she  wakt,  he  wayted  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepard  ; 
From  her  fayre  eyes  he  took  commandement, 
And  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her  intent. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 


B- 


SCENES   FROM    "COMUS.'-' 
THE    LADY    LOST    IN  THE    WOOD. 

This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true, 
My  best  guide  now  ;  methought  it  was  the  sound 
Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment, 
Such  as  the  jocund  flute  or  gamesome  pipe 
Stirs  up  amongst  the  loose,  unlettered  hinds, 
When  for  their  teeming  flocks  and  granges  full 
In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan, 
And  thank  the  gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loath 
To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swilled  insolence 
Of  such  late  wassailers  ;  yet  0,  where  else 
Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet 
In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  ? 
My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 
With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 
Under  the  spreading  favor  of  these  pines, 
Stepped,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side 
To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind,  hospitable  woods  provide. 
They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray-hooded  even, 
Like  ;i  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed, 
Lose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain. 
lint  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back, 
Is  now  the  labor  of  my  thoughts  :  't  is  likeliest 
They  had  engaged  their  wandering  steps  too  far, 
And  envious  darkness,  ere  they  could  return, 
Had  stole  them  from  me  ;  else,  0  thievish  night, 
Why  shouldsl  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end, 
In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars, 
That   nature  hung   in  heaven,   and    tilled  their 

lamps 
Witli  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 
To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller? 
This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess, 
Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 
Was  life,  and  period  in  my  listening  ear, 
Yet  naught  but  single  darkness  do  I  find. 


W 


638 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


a 


"What  might  this  he  ?     A  thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory, 
Of  calling  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire, 
And  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  men's  names 
-On  sands  and  shores  and  desert  wildernesses. 
These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound 
The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 
By  a  strong  siding  champion,  Conscience. 

0  welcome,  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hoveling  angel  girt  with  golden  wings, 
And  thou  unblemished  form  of  Chastity  ; 

1  see  you  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  he,  the  Supreme  Good,  to  whom  all  things 

ill 
Are  biit  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 
"Would  send  a  glistering  guardian,  if  need  were, 
To  keep  my  life  and  honor  unassailed. 

THE    LADY    TO    COMUS. 

Impostor,  do  not  charge  most  innocent  Nature, 

As  if  she  would  her  children  should  be  riotous 

With  her  abundance  ;  she,  good  cateress, 

Means  her  provision  only  to  the  good, 

That  live  according  to  her  sober  laws, 

And  holy  dictate  of  spare  temperance  : 

If  every  just  man,  that  now  pines  with  want, 

Had  but  a  moderate  and  beseeming  share 

Of  that  which  lewdly  pampered  luxury 

Now  heaps  upon  some  few  with  vast  excess, 

Nature's  full  blessings  would  be  well  dispensed 

In  unsnperfiuous  even  proportion, 

And  she  no  whit  encumbered  with  her  store  ; 

And  then  the  Giver  would  be  better  thanked, 

His  praise  due  paid  ;  for  swinish  gluttony 

Ne'er  looks  to  Heaven  amidst  his  gorgeous  feast, 

But  with  besotted,  base  ingratitude 

Crams,  and  blasphemes  his  Feeder. 

Milton. 


TAM   O'SHANTER. 

A  TALE. 
"  Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Buke." 

Gawin  Douglass. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet, 
A  -  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  pate  ; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
Th"  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles, 
Thai  lie  between  us  ami  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 


This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  0'  Shanter, 
As  he,  frae  Ayr,  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses.) 

0  Tarn  !  hadst  thou  been  but  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 


A  bleth'ring, 


blust'ring,  drunken  blellum 


That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober  ; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller  ; 

That  every  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on ; 

T.  at  at  the  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 

T  ou  drank  wi'  Kirten  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned  in  Doon  ; 

Or  catched  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  greet 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 
How  monie  lengthened  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  ! 

But  to  our  tale  :  Ae  market  night 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely ; 
And  at  his  elbow  souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony,  — 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither,  — 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter, 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better ; 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favors  secret,  sweet,  and  precious  ; 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories  ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus  ; 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drowned  himself  amang  the  nappy  ; 
As  bees  ilee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi'  pleasure  ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed  ; 
Or  like  the  snow-fall  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white,  — then  melts  forever  ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide  ; 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride,  — 
That  hour  o'  night's  black  arch  the  keystane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in  ; 


cEh- 


# 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


639 


a 


And  sic  a  night  he  takes  the  road  in 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed  ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellowed  ; 
That  night  a  child  might  understand 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 
(A  better  never  lifted  leg,) 
Tarn  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire,  — 
Whyles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whyles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whyles  glowering  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares  ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoored  ; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Char'ie  brak  's  neck-bane  ; 
And  through  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn  ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Where  Mungo's  mither  hanged  hersel'. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods  ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  through  the  woods  ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll  ; 
When,  glimmering  through  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze  ! 
Through  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  ! 
Wi'  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil  ; 
Wi'  usquebae  we  '11  face  the  Devil  !  — 
The  swats  sae  reamed  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  Deils  a  bodle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonished, 
Till,  by  ili1'  heel  and  hand  admonished, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light  ; 
And,  wow  !  Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight  ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance : 
Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 
There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast, — 
A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large,  — 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge  ; 
II.  screwed  tin-  pipes  ami  gart  them  skirl 
Till  roof  an'  rafter  a'  did  dirl. 

Coffins  Btood   round  like  open  presses, 

That  shawed  the  dead  in  their  last  .lresses  ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  Bleight, 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light,  — 


By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note,  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims  ; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns ; 
A  thief,  new  cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape  ; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red  rusted  ; 
Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted  ; 
A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled  ; 
A  knife  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft,  — 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft  ; 
Three  lawyers'  tongues  turned  inside  out, 
Wi'  lies  seamed  like  a  beggar's  clout  ; 
And  priests'  hearts,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 
Lay  stinking,  vile,  in  every  neuk  : 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu' 
Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowered,  amazed  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious  ; 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew  ; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew  ; 
They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now  Tarn.  0  Tam  !  had  they  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens  : 
Their  sarks,  instead  of  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder  linen  ; 
Thir  breeks  o'.mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  aff  my  hurdies 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies  ! 

But  withered  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  an'  flinging  on  a  cruinniock,  — 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd  what  was  what  fa'  brawlie. 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  inlisted  in  the  core, 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore  ! 
For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perished  monie  a  bonnie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear,  I 
Her  cutty-sark  o'  Paisley  barn, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn  — 
In  longitude  though  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  ami  she  was  vaunty. 
Ah  !  little  kenned  thy  reverend  grannie 

That  sark  si ft  for  her  wee  Nannie 

Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  (twas  a'  her  riches)  — 
Wail  ever  graced  a  'lance  o'  witches'. 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  man;-,  cower, 
Sic  lights  aic  far  beyond  her  power; 
To  sin},'  how  Nannie  lap  ami  Ha 
i  A  Bouplejad  she  was  and  Strang), 


ta- 


~# 


J=L 


640 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


And  how  Tarn  stood  like  ane  bewitched, 

And  thought  his  very  een  enriched. 

Ev'n  Satan  glowered,  and  tidged  fu'  fain, 

And  notched  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main  ; 

Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither,  — 

Tain  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 

And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  !" 

And  in  an  instant  a'  was  dark  ; 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 

When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke  ; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When  Catch  the  thief  1  resounds  aloud  ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  —  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tarn  !  ah,  Tarn  !  thou '11  get  thy  fairin'! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin  ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin'  — 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman  ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig  ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss,  — 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  ; 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle  : 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle,  — 
Ae  spring  brought  aif  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail  : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 

Ilk  man  and  mother's  son  take  heed  ; 

Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 

Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 

Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear, 

Kcmember  Tain  0'  Shanter's  mare. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE   PIED   PIPER  OF  HAMELIN. 

Hamemx  Town  's  in  Brunswick, 
By  famous  Hanover  City  ; 

The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 

Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side  ; 

A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied  ; 
But  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 

To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin  was  a  pity. 

Rats  ! 
They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats, 


And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats, 
By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking : 
"  'Tis  clear,"  cried  they,  "  our  Mayor 's  a  noddy  ; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation,  —  shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What 's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin  ! 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

An  hour  they  sate  in  counsel,  — 
At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence  : 

"  For  a  guilder  I  'd  my  ermine  gown  sell ; 
I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence  ! 

It 's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain,  — 

I  'in  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again. 

I  've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 

0  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap  ! " 

Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 

At  the  chamber  door  but  a  gentle  tap  ? 

"  Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "what  's  that?" 

"Come  in  !  "  —  the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger  •, 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure ; 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table  : 

And,  "  Please  your  honors,"  said  he,  "I  'm  able, 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  ! 

Yet, "  said  he,  ' '  poor  piper  as  I  am, 
In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 
Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of  gnats  ; 

1  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats  ; 

And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders,  — 

If  I  can  lid  your  town  of  rats, 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders  ? " 

"  One  ?  fifty  thousand  !  "  —  was  the  exclamation 

Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

Into  the  street  the  piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while  ; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled, 
Like  a  candle  flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled  ; 


W 


-r- 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


G41 


And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered  ; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling  ; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling  ; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers  ; 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives,  — 
Followed  the  piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
"Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished 
Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary, 
Which  was  : "  At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  pipe, 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe,  — 
And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 
And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks, 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks  ; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  0  rats,  rejoice  ! 
The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery  I 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon  ! 
And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 
All  ready  staved,  like  a  greit  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
Just  as  methought  it  said,  Come,  bore  me  !  — 
1  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple  ; 
"Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long  poles  ! 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes  ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats  !  "  —  when  suddenly,  up  the  face 
Of  the  piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 
With   a     "  First,    if  you  please,    my  thousand 
guilders  !" 

A  thousand  guilders  !  The  Mayor  looked  blue  ; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council-dinners  made  rare  havock 

With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Qrave,  Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 


To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 

With  a  gypsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow  ! 

"Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a  knowingwink, 

"  Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink  ; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what 's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I  think. 

So,  friend,  we  're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke  ; 

But  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty  ; 

A  thousand  guilders  !  Come,  take  fifty  !  " 

The  piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

"No  trifling  !    I  can't  wait  !  beside, 

I  've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 

Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of  the  head  cook's  pottage,  all  he  's  rich  in, 

For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen, 

Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor,  — 

With  him  1  proved  no  bargain-driver  ; 

With  you,  don't  think  1  '11  bate  a  stiver  ! 

And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 

May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion." 

"  How  ? "  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'  ye  think  I  '11  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  cook  ? 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald  ? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow  ?     Do  your  worst, 

Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst  !  " 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street  ; 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane  ; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justlingat  pitching  and  hustling; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues  chatter- 
ing ; 
And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when  barley  is 

scattering, 
Out  came  the  children  running  : 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 
As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 
Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 
To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by,  — 

And  could  only  follow  with  the 

That  joyous  crowd  at  tlie  piper's  back. 


W 


a 


-R- 


042 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 

And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 

As  the  piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 

To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 

Eight  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters  ! 

However,  he  turned  from  south  to  west, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed  ; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"  He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top  ! 

He  's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop  !  " 

When,  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain's  side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed  ; 

And  the  piper  advanced  and  the  children  followed ; 

And  when  all  were  in,  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 

Did  I  say  all  ?   No  !    One  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way  ; 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 

His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say,  — 

"  It  'sdull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left  ! 

I  can't  forget  that  I  'm  bereft 

Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

"Which  the  piper  also  promised  me  ; 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 

Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 

Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 

And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new  ; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings  ; 

And  just  as  I  became  assured 

My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still, 

And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 

Left  alone  np;ninst  my  will, 

To  go  now  limping  as  before, 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more  !  " 

Robert  Browning. 


RHOZCUS. 

A  youth  named  Rhcecus,  wandering  in  the  wood, 
Saw  an  old  oak  just  trembling  to  its  fall, 
And,  leeling  pity  of  so  fair  a  tree, 
II'-  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admiring  care, 
And  with  a  thoughtless  footstep  loitered  on. 
But,  as  he  turned,  he  heard  a  voice  behind 
That  murmured   "Rhcecus!"    'T  was  as  if  the 

leaves, 
Stirred  by  a  passing  breath,  had  murmured  it, 
And,  while  he  paused  bewildered,  yet  again 
It  murmured  "  Khcecus  ! "  softer  than  a  breeze. 


He  started  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the  substance  of  a  happy  dream 
Stand  there  before  him,  spreading  a  warm  glow 
Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shadowy  oak. 
It  seemed  a  woman's  shape,  yet  all  too  fair 
To  be  a  woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 
For  any  that  were  wont  to  mate  with  gods. 
All  naked  like  a  goddess  stood  she  there, 
And  like  a  goddess  all  too  beautiful 
To  feel  the  guilt-bom  earthliness  of  shame. 
"  Rhcecus,  I  am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree," 
Thus  she  began,  dropping  her  low-toned  words 
Serene,  and  full,  and  clear,  as  drops  of  dew, 
"And  with  it  I  am  doomed  to  live  and  die  ; 
The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers, 
Nor  have  I  other  bliss  than  simple  life  ; 
Now  ask  me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can  give, 
And  with  a  thankful  joy  it  shall  be  thine." 

Then  Rhcecus,  with  a  flutter  at  the  heart, 
Yet,  by  the  prompting  of  such  beauty,  bold, 
Answered  :   "What  is  there  that  can  satisfy 
The  endless  craving  of  the  soul  but  love  ? 
Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of  that 
Which  must  be  evermore  my  spirit's  goal." 
After  a  little  pause  she  said  again, 
But  with  a  glimpse  of  sadness  in  her  tone, 
' '  I  give  it,  Rhcecus,  though  a  perilous  gift  ; 
An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me  here." 
And  straightway  there  was  nothing  he  could  see 
But  the  green  glooms  beneath  the  shadowy  oak, 
And  not  a  sound  came  to  his  straining  ears 
But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
And  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope 
The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd's  pipe. 

Young  Rhcecus  had  a  faithful  heart  enough, 
But  one  that  in  the  present  dwelt  too  much, 
And,  taking  with  blithe  welcome  whatsoe'er 
Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound  in  that, 
Like  the  contented  peasant  of  a  vale, 
Deemed  it  the  world,  and  never  looked  beyond. 
So,  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon 
Some  comrades  who  were  playing  at  the  dice, 
He  joined  them,  and  forgot  all  else  beside. 

The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  merriest, 
And  Rhcecus,  who  had  met  but  sorry  luck, 
Just  laughed  in  triumph  at  a  happy  throw, 
When  through  the  room  there  hummed  a  yellow 

bee 
That  buzzed  about  his  ear  with  down-dropped  legs 
As  if  to  light.     And  Rhcecus  laughed  and  said, 
Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  he  was  with  loss, 
"  By  Venus  !  does  he  take  me  for  a  rose  ? " 
And  brushed  him  off  with  rough,  impatient  hand. 
But  still  the  bee  came  back,  and  thrice  again 
Rhcecus  did  beat  him  off  with  growing  wrath. 


& 


~ff 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


043 


ft 


Then  through  the  window  flew  the  wounded  bee, 
And  Rhcecus,  tracking  him  with  angry  eyes 
Saw  a  sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly 
Against  the  red  disk  of  the  setting  sun,  — 
And  instantly  the  blood  sank  from  his  heart, 
As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 
"Without  a  word  he  turned,  and,  rushing  forth, 
Ran  madly  through  the  city  and  the  gate, 
And  o'er  the  plain,  which  now  the  wood's  long 

shade, 
By  the  low  sun  thrown  forward  broad  and  dim, 
Darkened  wellnigh  unto  the  city's  wall. 

Quite  spent  and  out  of  breath  he  reached  the  tree, 

And,  listening  fearfully,  he  heard  once  more 

The  low  voice  murmur  "Rhcecus  !"  close  at  hand : 

"Whereat  he  looked  around  him,  but  could  see 

Naught  but  the  deepeningglooms  beneath  theoak. 

Then  sighed  the  voice,  "0  Rhcecus  !  nevermore 

Shalt  thou  behold  me  or  by  day  or  night, 

Me,  who  would  fain  have  blessed  thee  with  a  love 

More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 

Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart ; 

But  thou  didst  scorn  my  humble  messenger, 

And  sent'st  him  back  to  me  with  bruised  wings. 

We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes, 

"We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love. 

And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature's  works 

Is  thenceforth  exiled  and  shut  out  from  all. 

Farewell !  for  thou  canst  never  see  me  more." 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


KUBLA  KHAN. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran, 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  ; 
And  there  were  gardens,  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Infolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  0  that  deep  romantic  chasm,  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover  ! 
A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning in  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  ! 

And    from    this  chasm,   with    ceaseless  turmoil 

ething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced, 
Amid  whose  swift,  half-intermitted  bursl 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail  ; 


And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles,  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale,  the  sacred  river  ran,  — 
Thm  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean, 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war. 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device,  — 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw  ; 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  't  would  win  me 

That,  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air,  — 

That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 

And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  beware 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


THE   LAKE   OF   THE   DISMAL   SWAMP. 

WRITTEN    AT   NORFOLK    IN   VIRGINIA. 

"  They  tell  of  a  young  man  who  lost  his  mind  upon  the  death  of 
a  girl  he  loved,  and  who,  suddenly  disappearing  from  his  friends, 
was  never  afterwards  heard  of.  As  he  had  frequently  said  in  his 
ravines  that  the  girl  was  not  dead,  but  pone  to  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
it  is  supposed  he  hid  wandered  into  that  dreary  wilderness, 
and  had  died  of  hunger,  or  been  lost  in  some  of  its  dreadful 
morasses."—  ANONYMOUS. 

The  Great  Dismal  Swamp  is  ten  or  twelve  miles  distant  from 
Norfolk,  and  the  lake  in  the  middle  of  it  (about  seven  miles  long) 
is  called  Drummond's  Pond. 

"  Tiii.y  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and  damp 

For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true  ; 
And  she 's  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
Where  all  night  long,  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

And  her  firefly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 
And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear  ; 
Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 
And  I  'll  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress-tree, 
When  tin1  footstep  of  death  IS  near  .'  " 


ft 


# 


& 


644 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds,  — 

His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen  where  the  serpent  feeds, 

And  man  never  trod  before  ! 

And  when  on  the  earth  he  sunk  to  sleep, 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 
He  lay  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear,  and  nightly  steep 

The  flesh  with  blistering  dew  ! 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirred  the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
"  0,  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ?  " 

He  sawr  the  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  played,  — 
"  "Welcome,"  he  said,  "my  dear  one's  light  !  " 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed  for  many  a  night 
The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid  ! 

Till  he  hollowed  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark, 
Which  carried  him  off  from  shore  ; 

Far  he  followed  the  meteor  spark, 

The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were  dark, 
And  the  boat  returned  no  more. 

But  oft,  from  the  Indian  hunter's  camp, 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true 

Are  seen,  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp, 

To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  white  canoe  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  heaven  ; 

Her  eyes  wrere  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  neatly  worn  ; 

11'  i  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Her  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers  ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 


It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on  ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  wThich  is  space  begun  ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Heard  hardly,  some  of  her  new  friends 

Amid  their  loving  games 
Spake  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  virginal  chaste  names  ; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stopped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
The  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 


"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  prayed  in  heaven  ? —  on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid?" 


She  gazed  and  listened,  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,  — 

"All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  toward  her,  filled 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  ; 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


POEMS   OF  FANCY. 


645    T 


RIME  OF   THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

IN    SEVEN    PARTS. 

PART    I. 

An  ancient  tt  is  an  ancient  mariner, 

manner  t ' 

meeteth      And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

three  g"al- 

lams,  bidden  "  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering 

to  a  wed- 
ding feast,  eye, 

eth  on'e'?"**  Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 


The  bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set,  — 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand  : 
"There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 
"Hold    off!     unhand    me,  graybear 

loon  ! "  — 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye,  — 
The  wedding-guest  stood  still  ; 
He  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  ; 
The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone,  — 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner  : 

"The   ship  was    cheered,    the  harbor 

cleared  ; 
Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 
Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ; 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  ami  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon  —  " 

The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


The  wed- 
ding-guest 

is  spell- 
bound by 
the  eye  of 
the  old  sea- 
faring man, 
and  con- 
strained to 
hear  his 
tale. 


The  mari- 
ner tells 
how  the 
ship  sailed 
southw.ini, 
with  a  good 
wind  and 
fair  weath- 
er, till  it 
reached 
the  line. 


Jin"-";;';,    The  bride  hath  Paced  into  the  hall,  - 

heareth  ][,.,]  ;,  ,  ;,    ,-,,,,.  js  s]1(.  . 

tlie  bridal        r  ' 

musii  ;  bui   Nodding  their  beads  before  her  goes 

the  mariner  _.  .  ° 

inueth    flu-  merry  nnn.strcl.sv. 

his  tale.  J  J 

The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yd  he  cannot  choose  hut  hear ; 
And  thus  Bpake  on  thai  ancienl  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner : 


The  ship 
drawn  by  a 
Btonn  to- 
ward the 
pole. 


"  Ami  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong  ; 

lie  stniek  with  his  o'ertakinc  wines. 

And  cha.scd  OS  south  along. 


"With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow,  — 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 
And  forward  bends  his  head,  — 
The  ship  drove  fast ;  loud  roared  the 

blast, 
And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 


And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  cliffs  The  land  of 

°    t  J  ice  and  of 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  ;  fearful 

sounds, 

JN  or  shapes  or.  men  nor  beasts  we  ken,  —  where  no 

living  thing 
was  to  be 
seen. 


The  ice  was  all  between. 


The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around  ; 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and 

howled, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  albatross,  — 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came  ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through  ! 

And  a  good  south-wind  sprung  up  be- 
hind ; 
The  albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke 

white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moonshine." 


"God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner  !  Theancicnt 

manner  in. 

From  the  fiends  that  plague  t  lice  thus  !  —  hospitably 

,,.,         ,       ,  ,  .  ...  ,.„.   ,  killeth  the 

Why  look  st  thou  so?    — "With  my  pious  bird 

.  of  good 

Cl'OSS-boW  omen. 

I  shot  the  albatross." 


PART   II. 

"  The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right,  — 

Out  of  the  sea   came  he, 

Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went   down  into  the  sea. 

Ami  the  good  south-wind  still  blew  be- 
hind ; 
But  1IO  sued   hinl  did  follow, 


Till  a  great 
sea-bird, 
called 
the  alba- 
tross, came 
through  the 
snow-fog, 
and  was  re- 
ceived with 
great  joy 
and  hospi- 
tality. 


Andlo!  the 
albatross 
prnveth  a 

bird  <>f  good 
omen,  and 
followeth 
the  ship  as 
it  returned 
northward 
through 
fog  and 
floating  ice. 


!tj 


-ff 


646 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


-o 


Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo. 

His  ship-      And  i  ]ia(j  Jone  a  hellish  thing, 

mate*  cry  ° 

out  against  And  it  wouhl  work   em  woe  ; 
mariner,  tor  For  all  averred  1  had  killed  the  bird 
birdof  good  That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  : 

Ah,  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 


But  when 
the  fog 


Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head 
re'doff,  The  glorious  .sun  uprist  ; 

the)' justify  °  L  .    . 

the  same,     I  hen  all  averred  1  had  killed  the  bird 
make  "hem-  That  brought  the  fog  and  mist  : 
complices  in  'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

the  crime.      T]mt  bring  the  fog  ^  m[&t 

The  fair      fhe  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

breeze  con-  ' 

tinues ;  the  The  furrow  followed  free  ; 

ship  enters 

the  Pacific    \\  e  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
saUs  north-   Into  that  silent  sea. 

ward,  even 

till  it  reaches  the  line. 


And 


through 


utter 


The  ship 
hath  been 
suddenly 
becalmed. 


t 


Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt 

down,  — 
'T  was  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea. 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky 
The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Eight  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 

We  stuck,  — nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 

As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 

Upon  a  painted  ocean. 


aibat'oss     "Water,  water  everywhere, 
begins  to     And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  : 

be  aven- 

ged.  \\  ater,  water  everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot  :  0  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea  ! 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout, 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

harTfo'-       ^d  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
lowed  them,  Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 

—  one  of  .  '  I       r>  ' 

theinvisi-     Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
ants  of  this  From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

planet, 

r  departed  souls  nor  angels;  concerning  whom  the  learned 
Jew,  Joseph  us.  and  the  Platonic  Constantino)  >ohtan,  Michael  Psellus, 
may  be  consulted.  They  are  very  numerous,  and  there  is  no  cli- 
mate or  element  without  one  or  more. 


The  ship- 
mates, in 
thei    sore, 
distress, 
would  fain 
throw  the 
whole  guilt 
on  the  an- 
cient mari- 
ner :  in  si^'i 
whereof 
they  hang 
the  dead 
sea-bird 
round  his 
neck. 


The  an- 
cient mari- 
ner behold 
eth  a  sign 
in  the  ele- 
ment afar 
off. 


every     tongue, 

drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root  ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah  !  well-a-day  !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

PART    III. 

T 1 1  ere  passed  a  wreary  ti m e .    Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye,  — 
A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye  !  — 
When,  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist  ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist,  — 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist  ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared  ; 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged,  and  tacked,  and  veered. 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  At  ,ts  near 

i    i    j  er  ap" 

bakert,  proach  it 

We  could  not  laugh  nor  wail ;  him  to  be  a 

Through   utter  drought   all   dumb  we  at 'a  dear 

. i  ransom  he 

StOOCl  ,  free!  h  his 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood,  lromth.e 

And  cried,  A  sail  !  a  sail !  j'™^  of 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips 

baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call  ; 
Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 


A  flash  of 
joy. 


And  horror 
follows  ; 
for  .in  it 
be  a  ship 
that  comes 
onward 
without 
wind  or 
tide? 


See  !  see  !  I  cried,  she  tacks  no  more  ! 
Hither,  to  work  us  weal,  — 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel  ! 

The  western  wave  was  all  aflame  ; 
The  day  was  wellnigh  done  ; 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  sun,  — 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 


And  straight  the  sun  was  flecked  with  ^^^J, 
bars,  •"» of 

a  ship. 

(Heaven's  mother  send  us  grace  !) 


£3* 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


64; 


As  if  through  a  dungeon  grate  he  peered 
"With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  !  thought  I  —  and  my  heart  beat 

loud  — 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Aiv  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 


And  its  ribs  Are  thoseher  ribs  through  which  the  sun 

ue  seen  as  ° 

oars  on  the  Di<l  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 

face  of  the  \        '  °  ° 

-.etttng  sun.  And  ls  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 
♦re-woman   Is  that  a  Death  ?  and  are  there  two  ? 
death"       Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ? 

mate,  and 

no  other,  on  board  the  skeleton  ship. 


I-ike  ves- 
sel, like 
crew! 


Death  and 
I-ife-in- 
Death 
have  diced 
fur  the 
ship's  crew, 
and  she 
(the  latter) 
winneth 
the  an 
mariner. 


No  twilight 
within  the 
courts  of 
the  sun. 


At  the  ris- 
ing of  the 
moon, 


Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  ; 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy  : 
The  nightmare  Life-in-death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  : 

'  The  game  is  done  !  I  've  won  !    I  've 

won  ! ' 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  sun's  rim  dips,  the  stars  rush  out, 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark  ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea 
Off  shot  the  spectre  bark. 

We  listened,  and  looked  sideways  up  ; 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ; 

The    stars   were    dim,    and   thick   the 

night,  — 
Thesteersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed 

white  : 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip,  — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 


Esther"     0ne  after  one'  ],y  t,K'  star-dogged  moon, 
T  10  (juick  for  groan  or  sigh, 

bturnedhisface,  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his 

"a.efjrop    F°Ur  times  &%  livinS  ^n, 

down  dead;  (And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  ^roan  !) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  fine  by  one. 

DeltVbe"'  The  souls  ,li'i  froni  their  bodies  fly,  — 

ginsher         TheV  fled  to  bliss  or  V 
work  on 

the  nn. .em  And  every  soul  it  passed  me  by, 
Like  the  whiz  of  my  cross-bow  |  " 


PART    IV. 


The  wed- 
ding-guest 
feareth  that 


"I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown,  talking  to 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 


I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 
And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown." 
"Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest ! 
This  body  dropt  not  down. 


Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  ; 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on,  —  and  so  did  I. 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away  ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  heaven  and  tried  to  pray  ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 


I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and 

the  sky, 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  wean-  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 


But  the  an- 
cient mari- 
assuretb 

him  of  his 
bodily  life, 
and  pro- 
ceedeth  to 
relate  his 
horrible 
penance. 


He  de- 
spiseth  the 
creatures  of 
the  calm : 


And  en- 
vieth  that 
they  should 
live,  and  so 
many  lie 
dead. 


The    cold    sweat    melted    from 

limbs,  — 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they 


their  But  *?  ,. 

curse  liveth 
for  him  in 
the  eye  of 
the  dead 

The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me  meQ' 
Had  never  passed  away. 


An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  0,  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven  da;  d  nights,   I  saw  that 

curse,  — 
And  yet  I  could  not  die. 


Til-  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide  ; 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 

And  a  star  or  two  I..--: 


In  his 
loneliness 
and  fixed- 

• 

Is  ihe 

the  stars   that  still  sojourn,  yet   still   more  onward;    and 
them,  and  is  their 

h  they 
enter  u-  ire  certainly  expected  ;  and  yet 

there  is  a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 


■8- 


4 


c=r 


G48 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


Her  beams  bemocked  tbe  sultry  main, 
Like  April  boar-frost  spread  ; 
But  where  tbe  snip's  huge  shadow  lay 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

By  the  light  Beyond  tbe  shadow  of  the  ship 

of  the  moon         J  L 

he  behold-    J  watcbed  the  water-snakes  ; 

eth  God  s  1  .  .  „    _  .     .  .  . 

creatures     They  moved  in  tracks  oi  shining  white  ; 
calm!  B'  *  And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 
Fell  oil'  in  hoary  Hakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I  watcbed  their  rich  attire,  — 
Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 
They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 
"Was  a  Hash  of  golden  fire. 

Their  beau-  q  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 
happiness.    Their  beauty  might  declare  ; 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 
Hebiesseth  \nj  i  blessed  them  unaware,  — 

them  in  his 

heart.         Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

The  spell     The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray  : 

begins  to  r     j   > 

break.        And  from  my  neck  so  free 

The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


part  V. 

0  sleep  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 


By  grace 
of  the  Holy 


The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 
Mother,  the  That  had  so  lonff  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  thev  were  filled  with  dew 


ancient 
mariner  is 

with  rain.     And  when  I  woke,  it  rained. 


My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 
Sure  1  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  ; 
I  was  so  light  —  almost 
I  thought  that  1  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

"und^and1  ^n(l  soon  ^  heard  a  roaring  wind,  — 
It  did  not  come  anear  ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sear. 


seeth 
strange 
bights  and 
comiii 
in  the  sky 
and  the  ele- 
ment. 


Tin-  upper  air  burst  into  life  ; 

And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ; 


crew  are  in- 
spired, and 
the  ship 
moves  on. 


And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  tbe  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  ; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one 

black  cloud,  — 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  moon  was  at  its  side  ; 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag,  — 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship,    Thebodies 

1 '     of  the  ship  < 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 
Tbe  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They   groaned,   they  stirred,   they  all 

uprose,  — 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

Tbe  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved 

on  ; 
Yet  never  a  breeze  upblew  ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 
They   raised   their   limbs   like  lifeless 

tools,  — 
We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  ; 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope, 
But  be  said  naught  to  me." 

"  I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner  !  " 
"  Be  calm,  thou  wedding-guest ! 
'T  was  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest. 

For  when  it  dawned  they  dropped  their 

arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast  ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their 

mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 


But  not  by 
the  souls  of 
the  men, 
nor  by  de- 
mons of 
earth  or 
middle  air, 
but  by  a 
blessed 
troop  of  an- 
gelic spirits 
sent  down 
by  the  invo- 
cation of 
the  guar- 
dian saint. 


43— 


c^ 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


649 


The  lone- 
some spirit 
from  the 
south  pole 
carrier  i  in 
the  ship  as 
far  as  the 
line  in  obe- 
dience to 
the  angelic 
troop  ;  but 
still  requir- 
eth  ven- 
geance. 


The  polar 

spirit  s  fel- 
low-de- 

.  the 
invisible 
inhabitants 
of  the  de- 
al   i' .  tike 
part  in  lus 

;  ;  and 
two  I  ' 

,  "He 

oth- 
er, that 
penance, 
and 
heavy  for 

■  lent 

mariner, 

hath 

h  il  ir 
spirit.  H  lut 
returneth 

south' 


Sometimes,  a-dropping  from  the  sky, 
I  heard  the  skylark  sing ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are,  — 
How  they  seemed  to  till  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 

And  now  't  was  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon,  — 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe  ; 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  slid  ;  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean  ; 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  to  stir, 
"With  a  short  uneasy  motion,  — - 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound,  — 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay 
1  have  not  to  declare  ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned 
1  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned, 
Two  voices  ill  the  air  ; 

'  Is  it  he  ? '  quoth  one,  '  Is  this  the  man? 
By  him  who  died  on  cro    . 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
Tin-  harmless  albatross  ! 

The  qiiiit  who  bideth  by  himself 

In  the  land  ill   mil   ami  siinw. 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  tin-  man 
\Vh<>  .--hot  him  with  his  bow.' 


The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  : 

Quoth  he,  'The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 


PART   VI. 


FIRST    VOICE. 


'  But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again, 
Thy  toft  response  renewing,  — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing? ' 

SECOND   VOICE. 

'  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast  ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  moon  is  cast,  — - 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go  ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

FIRST    VOICE. 

'  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? ' 

SECOND   VOICE. 

'  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  !  more  high,  more  high ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated  ; 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 


I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on  The  super- 

'  o  natural  mo- 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  ;  'ion, '*,"-"• 

°  tardeel ;  the 

'T  was  night,  calm  night,  —  the  moon  '»'ri,"er 

was  high  ; 
The  dead  men  stood  together. 


The  mari- 
ner hath 
been  cast 
into  a 
trance  ;  for 
the  angelic 
power  caus- 
eth  the  ves- 
sel to  drive 
northward 
faster  than 
human 
life  could 
endure. 


awakes, 

ami  his 

1>enance 
)egins 
anew. 


All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter  ; 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they 

died. 
Had  never  passed  away  ; 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  nowthisspell  was  snapt  ;  oncemore  Jg^jJT8 
I   viewed  the  oeeau  green,  expiated. 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen,  — 

Like  one  thai  on  a  lonesome  road 
I  loth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 


qj- 


~ff 


r& 


650 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


And,  having  once  turned  round,  walks 

on, 
And  turns  no  more  Ids  head  ; 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  ; 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek, 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring,  — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too  ; 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze,  — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

0  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 
The  lighthouse  top  I  see  ? 
Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray,  — 
0,  let  me  be  awake,  my  God! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock  ; 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 


And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 
Thennffei-  Till,  rising  from  the  same, 

ic  spirits  '  n  7 

leave  the     Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

dead  .  J  ' 

bodies,        In  crimson  colors  came. 


And  the 

ancient 

mariner 

beholdeth 

his  native 

country. 


A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were  ; 


And  ap- 
pear  in 
their  own 
firms  Of 

light.  1  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck,  — 

0  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ! 


Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat ; 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph  man, 
On  (-very  corse  there  stood. 

This    seraph    band,    each    waved    his 

hand,  — 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 


They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This  seraph  band  each  waved  his  hand ; 
No  voice  did  they  impart,  — 
No  voice  ;  but  0,  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart ! 

But  soon  1  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 
I  heard  the  pilot's  cheer  ; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  pilot  and  the  pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast ; 
Dear  Lord  in  heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third,  —  I  heard  his  voice  ; 

It  is  the  hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood  ; 

He  '11   shrieve   my  soul,  —  he  '11  wash 

away 
The  albatross's  blood. 

PART  VII. 

This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels    at  morn    and    noon  and 

eve,  — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump  ; 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  neared,  —  I  heard  them 

talk  : 
'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights,  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ? ' 


The  hermit 
of  the  wood 


with  won- 
der. 


'  Strange,  by  my   faith  ! '    the   hermit  ^pt™ea^- 

said,  — 
'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer  ! 
The   planks   looked  warped  !   and   see 

those  sails, 
How  thin  they  are  and  sear  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along, 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 


£&- 


■ff 


a- 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


G51 


■ft 


And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolfs  young.' 

'Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look,' 
The  pilot  made  reply,  — 
'I  am  a-feared.'  —  '  Push  on,  push  on  ! ' 
Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred  ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard  : 

The  ship     Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 

suddenly 

sinketh.       Still  louder  and  more  dread  ; 

It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay  ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

The  an-       Stunned  bv  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

cient  man-  J 

ncr  is  saved  Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

in  tile  iiii  i 

pilots  boat.  Like   one   that    hath  been  seven  days 
drowned, 
My  body  lay  afloat ; 
But,  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 
"Within  the  pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl  where  sank  the  ship 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round  ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips,  —  the  pilot  shrieked, 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit  ; 
The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars  ;  the  pilot's  boy, 

"Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed   loud  and   long  ;  and  all  the 

while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro  : 
'  Ha  !  ha  ! '  quoth  he,  '  full  plain  I  see, 
The  Devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 
The  hennil  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 


'0,    shrieve    me,    shrieve    me,    holy 


The  an- 
cient mari- 
ner earnest-  mil]  !    — 
ly  entreat-              ,  .  i  i  •     i 

eththeher-  11m-  hermil  crossed  Ins  brow  : 

shnevc  him; '  Say  quirk,'    quoth    he,    'I  bid   thee 

and  the 

ficnance  of  SJIV, 

Ife  " 


lum. 


falls  on  What  manner  0f  man  art  tuou  ?  ' 


Forthwith    tin's    frame 

wrenched 
With  a  woful  agony, 


of    mine    was 


And  ever 
and  anon, 
throughout 
his  future 
life,  an 
aejuny  con- 
st raineth 
him  to 
Jravel  from 
land  to 
laud, 


Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale,  — 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns  ; 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 
1  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  1  see 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me,  — 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  ! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  ; 
But  in  the  garden  bower  the  bride 
And  bridemaids  singing  are  ; 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer  ! 

0  wedding-guest  !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea,  — 
So  lonely  't  was,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

0,  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'T  is  sweeter  far  to  me 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  !  — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends,  — 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Farewell !  farewell  !  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest  ! 
lie  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small  ; 
For  tlie  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  witli  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone.     And  now  the  wedding-guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 


He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn  ; 

A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


And  to 
teai  h,  1>7 
his  own 
example 

lo\  e  and 
reverence 
of  all 
things 
that  God 
made  and 
loveth. 


c=u 


-ff 


652 


POEMS  OF  FANCY. 


THE  RAVEN. 

Oxce  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 
weak  and  weary, 

Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  for- 
gotten lore,  — 

While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there 
came  a  tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my 
chamber  door. 

'"T  is  some  visitor,"  1  muttered,  "tapping  at 
my  chamber  door  ; 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more.  ' 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak 

December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost 

upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  1   wished   the   morrow ;  vainly   I   had 

sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow,  —  sorrow  for 

the  lost  Lenore,  — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 

named  Lenore,  — 
Nameless  here  forevermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each 

purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me,  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors 

never  felt  before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  1 

stood  repeating, 
"'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my 

chamber  door,  — 
Some  late   visitor    entreating   entrance   at  my 

chamber  door  ; 
That  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger  ;  hesitating  then 
no  longer, 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  madam,  truly  your  forgive- 
ness I  implore  ; 

But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you 
came  rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my 
chamber  door, 

That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —     Here  I 
opened  wide  the  door  ; 
Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood 
there,  wondering,  fearing, 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared 
to  dream  before  ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  darkness 
gave  no  token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whis- 
pered word  "  Lenore  !  " 


This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back 
the  word  "Lenore  !" 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within 

me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder 

than  before. 
"Surely,"  said  1,  "surely  that  is  something  at 

my  window-lattice  ; 
Let  me   see   then   what  there  at  is,    and  this 

mystery  explore,  — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery 

explore  ;  — 
'T  is  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  then  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many 

a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven  of  the  saintly 

days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ;  not  an  instant 

stopped  or  stayed  he  ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above 

my  chamber  door, — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my 

chamber  door,  — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 
smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  counte- 
nance it  wore, 

"  Though  thy.crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou," 
I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven  ; 

Ghastly,    grim,  and  ancient   raven,   wandering 
from  the  nightly  shore, 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night's 
Plutonian  shore  ? " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore  !  " 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  here 
discourse  so  plainly, 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning,    little   rele- 
vancy bore  ; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 
being 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his 
chamber  door, 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his 
chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as  "Nevermore  !  " 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust, 

spoke  only 
That  one  word,  is  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word 

he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  — ■  not  a  feather 

then  he  fluttered,  — 


B- 


--B3 


rS- 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


G53 


Till    I    scarcely   more   than   muttered,    "  Other 

friends  have  flown  before,  — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes 
have  flown  before." 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

Startled  at  the  stillness,  broken  by  reply  so  aptly 
spoken, 

"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only 
stock  and  store, 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  un- 
merciful disaster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  song 
one  burden  bore, 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  bur- 
den bore,  — 
Of  '  Nevermore,  —  nevermore  !  '  " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into 

smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of 

bird  and  bust  and  door, 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself 

to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous 

bird  of  yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and 

ominous  bird  of  yore  — 
Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore  !" 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable 
expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into 
my  bosom's  core  ; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at 
ease  reclining 

On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp- 
light gloated  o'er, 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp- 
light gloating  o'er, 
She  shall  press  —  ah  !  nevermore  ! 

Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed 
from  an  unseen  censer, 

Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on 
the  tufted  floor. 

"Wretch,"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee,— 
by  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 

Respite,  — respite  and  nepenthe  from  the  mem- 
ories of  Lenore  ! 

Qualf,  0,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget 
this  lost  Lenore  !  " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore  !" 

"Prophel  '  "  Baid  I,  "thing  of  evil  ! — prophet 

still,  if  bird  or  drvil  ! 
Whether    tempter    sent,   or    whether   tempest 

tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land 

enchanted,  — 


On  this  home  by  horror  haunted,  —  tell  me  truly, 

I  implore,  — 
Is  there  —  is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me, 
—  tell  me,  I  implore  !  " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  ! " 

"Prophet  !  "  said  I,   "  thing  of  evil  !  —  prophet 
still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us,  —  by  that 
God  we  both  adore, 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the 
distant  Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  an- 
gels name  Lenore, — 

Clasp  a  fair  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  an- 
gels name  Lenore  ! " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

"Be   that   word   our   sign  of  parting,  bird   or 

fiend  !  "  I  shrieked,  upstarting,  — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's 

Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy 

soul  hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  —  quit  the  bust 

above  my  door  ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy 

form  from  off  my  door  !  " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

And  the  raven,  never   flitting,  still  is   sitting, 

still  is  sitting 
On   the   pallid   bust  of   Pallas,  just   above  my 

chamber  door  ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon 

that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming   throws 

his  shadow  on  the  floor  ; 
And  my  soul   from  out  that  shadow  that   lies 

floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore/ 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


SONG  OF  THE  SEA  BY  THE  ROYAL 
GARDEN  AT  NAPLES. 

I  have  swung  for  ages  to  and  fro  ; 

I  have  striven  in  vain  to  reach  thy  feet, 

0  Garden  of  joy  !  whose  walls  are  low, 
And  odors  are  so  sweet. 

1  palpitate  with  fitful  love  ; 

I  sigh  and  sing  with  changing  breath  ; 
I  raise  my  hands  to  heaven  above, 
1  smite  my  shores  beneath  ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  !  while  far  and  fine, 
To  curb  the  madness  of  my  sweep, 


<B- 


65i 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


Runs  the  white  limit  of  a  line 
1  may  not  overleap. 

Once  thou  wert  sleeping  on  my  breast, 

Till  fiery  Titans  lifted  thee 
From  the  fair  silence  of  thy  rest, 

Out  of  the  loving  sea. 

And  I  swing  eternal  to  and  fro  ; 

I  strive  in  vain  to  reach  thy  feet, 
0  Garden  of  joy  !  whose  walls  are  low, 

And  odors  are  so  sweet ! 

ROSSITER  W.   RAYMOND. 


SONG   OF  THE  LIGHTNING. 

"  PUCK.     I  '11  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes." 

Midsummer  nights  dream. 

Away  !  away  !  through  the  sightless  air 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread  ! 
For  I  would  not  dim  my  sandals  fair 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread  ! 
Ay,  rear  it  up  on  its  million  piers, 

Let  it  circle  the  world  around, 
And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hundred  years 

1  '11  clear  at  a  single  bound  ! 

Though  I  cannot  toil,  like  the  groaning  slave 

Ye  have  fettered  with  iron  skill 
To  ferry  you  over  the  boundless  wrave, 

Or  grind  in  the  noisy  mill, 
Let  him  sing  his  giant  strength  and  speed  ! 

Why,  a  single  shaft  of  mine 
"Would  give  that  monster  a  flight  indeed,  — 

To  the  depths  of  the  ocean's  brine  ! 

No  !  no  !    I  'm  the  spirit  of  light  and  love  1 

To  my  unseen  hand  't  is  given 
To  pencil  the  ambient  clouds  above 

And  polish  the  stars  of  heaven  ! 
I  scatter  the  golden  rays  of  fire 

On  the  horizon  far  below, 
And  deck  the  sky  where  storms  expire 

With  my  red  and  dazzling  glow. 

With  a  glance  I  cleave  the  sky  in  twain  ; 

1  light  it  with  a  glare, 
When  fall  the  boding  drops  of  rain 

Through  the  darkly  curtained  air  ! 
The  rock-built  towers,  the  turrets  gray, 

The  piles  of  a  thousand  years, 
Have  not  the  strength  of  potter's  clay 

Beneath  my  glittering  spears. 

From  the  Alps'  or  the  Andes'  highest  crag, 
From  the  peaks  of  eternal  snow, 

The  blazing  folds  of  my  fiery  flag 
Illume  the  world  below. 


The  earthquake  heralds  my  coming  power, 

The  avalanche  bounds  away, 
And  howling  storms  at  midnight's  hour 

Proclaim  my  kingly  sway. 

Ye  tremble  when  my  legions  come,  — 

When  my  quivering  sword  leaps  out 
O'er  the  hills  that  echo  iny  thunder  drum, 

And  rend  with  my  joyous  shout. 
Ye  quail  on  the  land,  or  upon  the  seas 

Ye  stand  in  your  fear  aghast, 
To  see  me  burn  the  stalworth  trees, 

Or  shiver  the  stately  mast. 

The  hieroglyphs  on  the  Persian  wall,  — 

The  letters  of  high  command,  — 
Where  the  prophet  read  the  tyrant's  fall, 

Were  traced  by  my  burning  hand. 
And  oft  in  fire  have  I  wrote  since  then 

What  angry  Heaven  decreed  ; 
But  the  sealed  eyes  of  sinful  men 

Were  all  too  blind  to  read. 

At  length  the  hour  of  light  is  here, 

And  kings  no  more  shall  bind, 
Nor  bigots  crash  with  craven  fear, 

The  forward  march  of  mind. 
The  words  of  Truth  and  Freedom's  rays 

Are  from  my  pinions  hurled  ; 
And  soon  the  light  of  better  days 

Shall  rise  upon  the  world. 

George  w.  Cutter. 


ORIGIN   OF   THE   OPAL. 

A  dew-drop  came,  with  a  spark  of  flame 
He  had  caught  from  the  sun's  last  ray, 

To  a  violet's  breast,  where  he  lay  at  rest 
Till  the  hours  brought  back  the  day. 

The  rose  looked  down,  with  ablush  and  frown  ; 

But  she  smiled  all  at  once,  to  view 
Her  own  bright  form,  with  its  coloring  warm, 

Reflected  back  by  the  dew. 

Then  the  stranger  took  a  stolen  look 

At  the  sky,  so  soft  and  blue  ; 
And  a  leaflet  green,  with  its  silver  sheen, 

Was  seen  by  the  idler  too. 

A  cold  north-wind,  as  he  thus  reclined, 

Of  a  sudden  raged  around  ; 
And  a  maiden  fair,  who  was  walking  there, 

Next  morning,  an  opal  found. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  ORIGIN   OF  GOLD. 

The  Fallen  looked  on  the  world  and  sneered. 
"  I  can  guess,"  he  muttered,  "  why  God  is  feared, 


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For  the  eyes  of  mortal  are  fain  to  shun 
The  midnight  heaven  that  hath  no  sun. 
I  will  stand  on  the  height  of  the  hills  and  wait 
"Where  the  day  goes  out  at  the  western  gate, 
And,  reaching  up  to  its  crown,  will  tear 
From  its  plumes  of  glory  the  brightest  there  : 
With  the  stolen  ray  I  will  light  the  sod, 
And  turn  the  eyes  of  the  world  from  God." 

He  stood  on  the  height  when  the  sun  went  down, 
He  tore  one  plume  from  the  day's  bright  crown, 
The  proud  beam  stooped  till  he  touched  its  brow, 
And  the  print  of  his  fingers  are  on  it  now  ; 
And  the  blush  of  its  anger  forcvermore 
Burns  red  when  it  passes  the  western  door. 
The  broken  feather  above  him  whirled, 
In  flames  of  torture  around  him  curled, 
And  he  dashed  it  down  on  the  snowy  height, 
In  broken  flashes  of  quivering  light. 
Ah,  more  than  terrible  was  the  shock 
'Where  the  burning  splinters  struck  wave  and  rock ! 
The  green  earth  shuddered,  and  shrank  and  paled, 
The  wave  sprang  up,  and  the  mountain  quailed  ; 
Look  on  the  hills,  let  the  scars  they  bear 
Measure  the  pain  of  that  hour's  despair. 

The  Fallen  watched  while  the  whirlwind  fanned 

The  pulsing  splinters  that  ploughed  the  sand  ; 

Sullen  he  watched  while  the  hissing  waves 

Bore  them  away  to  the  ocean  caves  ; 

Sullen  he  watched  while  the  shining  rills 

Throbbed  through  the  hearts  of  the  rocky  hills  ; 

Loudly  he  laughed,  "  Is  the  world  not  mine  ? 

Proudly  the  links  of  its  chain  shall  shine  ; 

Lighted  with  gems  shall  its  dungeon  be, 

But  the  pride  of  its  beauty  shall  kneel  to  me." 

That  splintered  light  in  the  earth  grew  cold, 

And  the  diction  of  mortals  hath  called  it  gold. 
Sarah  E.  Cak'michael,  of  Utah. 


FAIRIES'  SONG. 

We  the  fairies  blithe  and  antic, 
Of  dimensions  nol  gigantic, 
Though  tin-  moonshine  mostly  keep  us, 
Oft  in  orchards  frisk  and  peep  us. 

Stolen  sweets  arc  always  sweeter  ; 
Stolen  kiss's  much  completer  ; 
Stolen  looks  are  nice  in  chapels  ; 

Stolen,  stolen  lie  your  apples. 

When  to  bed  the  world  are  bobbing, 
Then  's  the  time  for  orchard-robbing  ; 
Yet  I  he  fruit  were  scarce  worth  peeling 
Were  it  not  for  stealing,  stealing. 

Thomas  RANDOLPH  (Latin).     Tram- 
l.ition  of  LB1GH   HUM. 


FAIRY   LORE   FROM   SHAKESPEARE. 
THE  FAIRIES'  LULLABY. 

FROM    "MIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S   DREAM." 

Enter  Titania,  vjith  her  train. 

Titania.  Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  ;  — 
Some  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  ; 
Some,  war  with  rear-mice  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats  ;  and  some,  keep 

back 
The    clamorous   owl,    that  nightly  hoots,    and 

wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.    Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

SONG. 

1  Fairy.  Youspottedsnakcs,wilhdoubletongue, 

Thorny  hedge-hogs,  he  not  seen  ; 
Newts,  andblind-worms,  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 

Chorus.    Philomel,  with  melody, 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby  ; 

Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby: 
Never  luirm, 
Nor  spell  nor  cJiarm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

2  Fairy.    Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here  ; 

Hence,    you   long-legged    spinners, 
hence  I 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near ; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Chorus.    Philomel,  with  melody,  etc. 


MAIDEN  MEDITATION,  FANCY  FREE. 

FROM    "  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM." 

Obehox.   My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.    Thou 
remember' si 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back. 
Uttering  such  a  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song, 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

PUCK.  I  remember. 

OnE.  That  very  time  I  saw  (but  thou  couldst 
not), 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  armed  :  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal  throned  by  the  west, 


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POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


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And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 

As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts  : 

But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon, 

And  the  imperial  vot'rsss  passed  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

Yet  marked  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell  : 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower 

Before    milk-white,    now    purple    with    love's 

wound, 
And  maidens  call  it,  love-in-idleness. 


QUEEN  MAB. 

FROM    "  ROMEO    AND  JULIET." 

O  THEN  I  see,  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 
She  is  the  fairies'  midwife  ;  and  she  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman, 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep  : 
Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs  ; 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers  ; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web  ; 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams  ; 
Her  whin,  of  cricket's  bone  ;  the  lash,  of  film  ; 
Her  wagoner,  a  small  gray-coated  gnat, 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Pricked  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid  : 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 
Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub, 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  night 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of 

love  ; 
On  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream   on   court'sies 

straight  ; 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees  ; 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream,  — 
"Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues, 
Because  their  breaths  with   sweetmeats  tainted 

are  : 
Sometimes  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit ; 
And  sometimes  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  'a  lies  asleep, 
Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice  : 
Sometime  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats, 
Of  breaches,  ambuscades,  Spanish  blades, 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep  ;  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  lie  starts,  and  wakes  ; 
And,  being  thus  frighted,  swears  a  prayer  or  two, 
And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very  Mab, 
That  plats  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night ; 
And  bakes  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hairs, 
"Which,  once  untangled,  much  misfortune  bodes  : 


This  is  the  hag,  when  maids  lie  on  their  backs, 
That  presses  them,  and  learns  them  first  to  bear, 
Making  them  women  of  good  carriage. 

WHERE  THE  BEE  SUCKS. 

FROM    "  THE   TEMPEST." 

"Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer,  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough 

COME  UNTO  THESE  YELLOW  SANDS. 

FROM    "THE   TEMPEST." 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  ; 
Court'sied  when  you  have,  and  kissed 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there  ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 
Hark,  hark  ! 

Bowgh,  woivgli. 
The  watch-dogs  bark  : 
Bowgh,  wowgh. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

OVER  HILL,  OVER  DALE. 

FROM    "MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S   DREAM> 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brie*, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere, 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere  ; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green  : 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  b,* , 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see  ; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors  : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

FULL  FATHOM  FIVE. 

FROM    "  THE    TEMPEST." 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 


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POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


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Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  ej*es  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark  !  now  1  hear  them, — ding-dong,  bell. 


FAIRY  SONG. 

Shed  no  tear  !  0,  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more  !    0,  weep  no  more  ! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  core. 
Dry  your  eyes  !  0,  dry  your  eyes  ! 
For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies,  — 
Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead  !  look  overhead  ! 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red,  — 
Look  up,  look  up  !     I  flutter  now 
On  this  fresh  pomegranate  bough. 
See  me  !  't  is  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill, 
Shed  no  tear  !  0,  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu,  adieu  —  I  fly  —  adieu  ! 
I  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue,  — 
Adieu,  adieu  ! 

John  Keats. 


THE  SPICE-TREE. 

The  spice-tree  lives  in  the  garden  green  ; 

Beside  it  the  fountain  ilows  ; 
And  a  fair  bird  sits  the  boughs  between, 

And  sings  his  melodious  woes. 

No  greener  garden  e'er  was  known 

Within  the  bounds  of  an  earthly  king  ; 

No  lovelier  skies  have  ever  shone 

Than  those  that  illumine  its  constant  spring. 

That  coil-bound  stem  has  branches  three  ; 

On  each  a  thousand  blossoms  grow  ; 
And,  old  as  aught  of  time  can  be, 

The  root  Btands  fasl  in  the  rocks  below. 

In  the  spicj  shade  ne'er  seems  to  tire 
The  fount  thai  builds  a  silvery  dome  ; 

And  Hakes  of  purple  and  ruby  lire 

Gush  out,  and  sparkle  amid  the  foam. 

Tbe  fair  white  bird  of  (laming  crest, 
Ami  azure  win^s  bedropt  with  gold, 

Ne'er  has  be  known  a  pause  of  rest, 

But  sings  the  lament  that  lie  framed  of  old  : 


"  0  princess  bright  !  how  long  the  night 
Since  thou  art  sunk  in  the  waters  clear  ! 

How  sadly  they  flow  from  the  depth  below,  — 
How  long  must  I  sing  and  thou  wilt  not  hear  ? 

"The  waters  play,  and  the  flowers  are  gay, 

And  the  skies  are  sunny  above  ; 
I  would  that  all  could  fade  and  fall. 

And  I,  too,  cease  to  mourn  my  love. 

"  0,  many  a  year,  so  wakeful  and  drear, 

I  have  sorrowed  and  watched,  beloved,  for  thee  ! 

But  there  comes  no  breath  from  the  chambers  of 
death, 
While  the  lifeless  fount  gushes  under  the  tree." 

The  skies  grow  dark,  and  they  glare  with  red  ; 

The  tree  shakes  off  its  spicy  bloom  ; 
The  waves  of  the  fount  in  a  black  pool  spread  ; 

And  in  thunder  sounds  the  garden's  doom. 

Down  springs  the  bird  with  a  long  shrill  cry, 

Into  the  sable  and  angry  flood  ; 
And  the  face  of  the  pool,  as  he  falls  from  high, 

Curdles  in  circling  stains  of  blood. 

But  sudden  again  upswells  the  fount  ; 

Higher  and  higher  the  waters  flow,  — 
In  a  glittering  diamond  arch  they  mount, 

And  round  it  the  colors  of  morning  glow. 

Finer  and  finer  the  watery  mound 
Softens  and  melts  to  a  thin-spun  veil, 

And  tones  of  music  circle  around, 

And  bear  to  the  stars  the  fountain's  tale. 

And  swift  the  eddying  rainbow  screen 

Falls  in  dew  on  the  grassy  floor  ; 
Under  the  spice-tree  the  garden's  queen 

Sits  by  her  lover,  who  wails  no  more. 

John  Sterling. 


THE   VALLEY   BROOK. 

FRESH  from  the  fountains  of  the  wood 

A  rivulet  of  the  valley  came, 
And  glided  on  for  many  a  rood, 

Flushed  with  the  morning's  ruddy  flame. 

The  air  was  fresh  and  soft  and  swei  I  ; 
The  slopes  in  spring's  new  verdure  lay, 

And  wet  with  dew-drops  at  my  feet 
Bloomed  the  young  violets  of  May. 

No  sound  of  busy  life  was  heard 
Amid  those  pastures  lone  and  still, 


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Save  the  faint  chip  of  early  bird, 
Or  bleat  of  flocks  along  the  hill. 

I  traced  that  rivulet's  winding  way  ; 

New  scenes  of  beauty  opened  round, 
Where  meads  of  brighter  verdure  lay, 

And  lovelier  blossoms  tinged  the  ground. 

"  Ah,  happy  valley  stream  !  "  I  said, 

"  Calm  glides  thy  wave  amid  the  flowers, 

Whose  fragrance  round  thy  path  is  shed 
Through  all  the  joyous  summer  hours. 

0,  could  my  years,  like  thine,  be  passed 
In  some  remote  and  silent  glen, 

Where  I  could  dwell  and  sleep  at  last, 
Far  from  the  bustling  haunts  of  men  !  " 

But  what  new  echoes  greet  my  ear  ? 

The  village  school-boy's  merry  call  ; 
And  mid  the  village  hum  I  hear 

The  murmur  of  the  waterfall. 

I  looked  ;  the  widening  vale  betrayed 
A  pool  that  shone  like  burnished  steel, 

Where  that  bright  valley  stream  was  stayed 
To  turn  the  miller's  ponderous  wheel. 

Ah  !  why  should  I,  I  thought  with  shame, 

Sigh  for  a  life  of  solitude, 
When  even  this  stream  without  a  name 

Is  laboring  for  the  common  good. 

No  longer  let  me  shun  my  part 

Amid  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 
But  with  a  warm  and  generous  heart 

Press  onward  in  the  glorious  strife. 

John  Howard  Bryant. 


fc 


THE   CULPRIT  FAY. 

'T  is  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night,  — 
The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are  bright ; 
Naught  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 
But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  cloudless 

sky, 
And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 
A  river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 
The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest ; 
She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggy  breast, 
And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 
In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below. 
His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 
By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made; 
And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark 
Glimmers  and  dies  the  firefly's  spark,  — 
Like,  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 
Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest's  rack. 


The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 
A  burnished  length  of  wavy  beam 

In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below  ; 
The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still  ; 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid  ; 
And  naught  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  gauze-winged  katydid  ; 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whippoorwill, 

Who  moans  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  woe, 

Till  morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

'T  is  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell  : 
The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 
He  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and  stroke 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain-oak, 
And  he  has  awakened  the  sentry  elve 

Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree, 
To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry  ; 
Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell 
('T  was  made  of  the  white  snail's  pearly  shell)  : 
' '  Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well  ! 
Hither,  hither  wing  your  way  ! 
'T  is  the  dawn  of  the  fairy-day. " 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 

They  creep  from  the  mullein's  velvet  screen  ; 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 
From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 

Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  hammocks 
high, 
And  rocked  about  in  the  evening  breeze  ; 

Some  from  the  hum-bird's  downy  nest,  — 
They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 

And,  pillowed  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow  breast, 
Had  slumbered  there  till  the  charmed  hour  ; 

Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 
With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid  ; 

And  some  had  opened  the  four-o'-clock, 
And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 

And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 
Above,  below,  on  every  side,  — 

Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed 
In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride ! 

They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea, 
In  freak  and  dance  around  the  tree, 
Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup, 
And  drink  the  dew  from  the  buttercup  : 
A  scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now, 
For  an  ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow  ; 
He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 
And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade  ; 
He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew, 


-s 


■-n 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


059 


And  sunned  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 
Fanned  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 
Played  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 
And,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 
Forgot  the  lily-king's  behest. 
For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 

To  the  elfin  court  must  haste  away  : 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there, 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  culprit  fay. 

The  throne  was  reared  upon  the  grass, 
Of  spice-wood  and  of  sassafras  ; 
On  pillars  of  mottled  tortoise-shell 

Hung  the  burnished  canopy,  — 
And  o'er  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 

Of  the  tulip's  crimson  drapery. 
The  monarch  sat  on  his  judgment-seat, 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imperial  shone, 
The  prisoner  fay  was  at  his  feet, 

And  his  peers  were  ranged  around  the  throne. 
He  waved  his  sceptre  in  the  air, 

He  looked  around  and  calmly  spoke  ; 
His  brow  was  grave  and  his  eye  severe, 

But  his  voice  in  a  softened  accent  broke  : 

' '  Fairy  !  fairy  !  list  and  mark  : 

Thou  hast  broke  thine  elfin  chain  ; 

Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quenched  and  dark, 

And  thy  wings  are  dyed  with  a  deadly  stain,  — 
Thou  hast  sullied  thine  elfin  purity 

In  the  glance  of  a  mortal  maiden's  eye  ; 
Thou  hast  scorned  our  dread  decree, 

And  thou  shouldst  pay  the  forfeit  high. 
But  well  I  know  her  sinless  mind 

Is  pure  as  the  angel  forms  above, 
Gentle  and  meek,  and  chaste  and  kind, 

Such  as  a  spirit  well  might  love. 
Fairy  !  had  sin-  spot  or  taint, 

Bitter  had  been  thy  punishment  : 
Tied  to  tin-  hornet's  shardy  wings  ; 

Tossed  on  tin'  pricks  of  nettles'  stings  ; 

Or  seven  long  ages  doomed  to  dwell 

With  the  lazy  worm  in  the  walnut-shell  ; 

Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  bleed 

Beneath  the  tread  of  the  centipede  ; 

Or  bound  in  a  cobweb-dungeon  dim, 

Your  jailor  a  spider,  huge  and  grim, 

Amid  the  carrion  bodies  to  lie 

Of  the  worm,  and  the  bug,  and  the  murdered  fly: 

These  it  had  been  your  lot  to  bear, 

Had  a  stain  been  found  on  tl arthly  lair. 

Now  li-t,  and  mark  our  mild  decree, — 

Fairy,  this  youi  doom  mu-t  be  : 

"Thou  '■■  'he  beach  of  -and 

Where  tie-  water  bounds  the  elfin  land  ; 

Thou  shall  watch  th >zy  brine 

Till  the  sturgeon  leaps  in  the  brighl  moonshine, 
Then  dart  the  glistening  arch  below. 


And  catch  a  drop  from  his  silver  bow. 
The  water-sprites  will  wield  their  anus 

And  dash  around,  with  roar  and  rave, 
And  vain  are  the  woodland  spirits'  charms  ; 

They  are  the  imps  that  rule  the  wave. 
Yet  trust  thee  in  thy  single  might : 
If  thy  heart  be  pure  and  thy  spirit  right, 
Thou  shalt  win  the  warlock  fight. 

"  If  the  spray-bead  gem  be  won, 
The  stain  of  thy  wing  is  washed  away  ; 

But  another  errand  must  be  done 
Ere  thy  crime  be  lost  for  aye  : 

Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quenched  and  dark, 

Thou  must  reillume  its  spark. 

Mount  thy  steed,  and  spur  him  high 

To  the  heaven's  blue  canopy  ; 

And  when  thou  seest  a  shooting  star, 

Follow  it  fast,  and  follow  it  far,  — 

The  last  faint  spark  of  its  burning  train 

Shall  light  the  elfin  lamp  again. 

Thou  hast  heard  our  sentence,  fay  ; 

Hence  !  to  the  water-side,  away  !  " 


The  goblin  marked  his  monarch  well ; 

He  spake  not,  but  he  bowed  him  low, 
Then  plucked  a  crimson  colen-bell, 

And  turned  him  round  in  act  to  go. 
The  way  is  long,  he  cannot  fly, 

His  soiled  wing  has  lost  its  power, 
And  he  winds  adown  the  mountain  high, 

For  many  a  sore  and  weary  hour. 
Through  dreary  beds  of  tangled  fern, 
Through  groves  of  nightshade  dark  and  dern, 
Over  the  grass  and  through  the  brake, 
Where  toils  the  ant  and  sleeps  the  snake  ; 

Now  o'er  the  violet's  azure  flush 
He  skips  along  in  lightsome  mood  ; 

And  now  he  thrids  the  bramble-hush, 
Till  its  points  are  dyed  in  fairy  blood. 
He  has  leaped  the  bog,  he  has  pierced  the  brier, 
He.  has  swum  the  brook,  and  waded  the  mire, 
Till  his  spirits  sank,  and  his  limbs  grew  weak, 
And  the  red  waxed  fainter  in  his  cheek. 

He  had  fallen  to  the  gTOUlld  outright, 

For  rugged  and  dim  was  his  onward  track, 
But  there  came  a  spotted  load  in  sight, 

And  he  laughed  as  he  jumped  upon  her  back; 
He  bridled  her  month  with  a  rilkweed  twist, 

lb-  lashed  her  -ides  with  an  osier  thong  ; 
And  now,  through  evening's  dewy  mist, 

With  leap  and  spring  they  bound  alone;, 
Till  the  mountain's  magic  verge  is  past, 
And  the  beach  of  sand  is  reached  at  last. 

Soft  and  pale  is  the  moony  beam, 
Moveless  still  the  glassy  stream  ; 

The  wave  i-  .dear,   the  beach  is  bright 


ty-- 


-1-4-1 


a- 


660 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


With  snowy  shells  and  sparkling  stones  ; 
The  shore-surge  comes  in  ripples  light, 

In  murmurings  faint  and  distant  moans  ; 
And  ever  afar  in  the  silence  deep 
Is  heard  the  splash  of  the  sturgeon's  leap, 
And  the  bend  of  his  graceful  bow  is  seen,  — 
A  glittering  arch  of  silver  sheen, 
Spanning  the  wave  of  burnished  blue, 
And  dripping  with  gems  of  the  river-dew. 

The  elfin  cast  a  glance  around, 

As  he  lighted  down  from  his  courser  toad, 
Then  round  his  breast  his  wings  he  wound, 

And  close  to  the  river's  brink  he  strode  ; 
He  sprang  on  a  rock,  he  breathed  a  prayer, 

Above  his  head  his  arms  he  threw, 
Then  tossed  a  tiny  curve  in  air, 

And  headlong  plunged  in  the  waters  blue. 

Up  sprung  the  spirits  of  the  waves 

From  the  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral  caves  ; 

With  snail-plate  armor,  snatched  in  haste, 

They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid  wraste  ; 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 

On  the  mailed  shrimp  or  the  prickly  prong  ; 

Some  on  the  blood-red  leeches  glide, 

Some  on  the  stony  star-fish  ride, 

Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 

Some  on  the  sideling  soldier-crab  ; 

And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl,  that  flings 

At  once  a  thousand  streamy  stings  ; 

They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar, 

And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 

To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 

The  footsteps  of  the  invading  fay. 

Fearlessly  he  skims  along, 
His  hope  is  high,  and  his  limbs  are  strong  ; 
He  spreads  his  arms  like  the  swallow's  wing, 
And  throws  his  feet  with  a  frog-like  fling  ; 
His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine, 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-bees  rise, 
His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 

And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him  lies. 
But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near 

To  check  his  course  along  the  tide  ; 
Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career 

And  hem  him  round  on  every  side  ; 
On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fixed  his  hold, 
The  quart's  long  arms  are  round  him  rolled, 
The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin, 
And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin  ; 
The  gritty  star  has  rubbed  him  raw, 
And  the  crab  has  struck   nth  his  giant  claw  ; 
He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with  pain  ; 
lit-  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain  ; 
Hopeless  is  the  unequal  fight, 
Fairy  !  naught  is  left  but  flight. 


|      He  turned  him  round,  and  fled  amain, 
With  hurry  and  dash,  to  the  beach  again  ; 
He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side, 
And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide  ; 
The  strokes  of  his  plunging  arms  are  fleet, 
And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet, 
But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still, 
To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill. 
They  bad ;  the  wave  before  him  rise  ; 
They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes  ; 
And  they  stunned  his  ears  with  the  scallop-stroke, 
With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drum-fish  croak. 
0,  but  a  weary  wight  was  he 
When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  dogwood-tree. 
Gashed  and  wounded,  and  stiff  and  sore, 
He  laid  him  down  on  the  sandy  shore  ; 
He  blessed  the  force  of  the  charmed  line, 

And  he  banned  the  water-goblins'  spite, 
For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moonshine 
Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 

Giggling  and  laughing  with  all  their  might 
At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  fairy  wight. 

Soon  he  gathered  the  balsam  dew 

From  the  sorrel-leaf  and  the  henbane  bud  ; 

Over  each  wound  the  balm  he  drew, 

And  with  cobweb  lint  he  stanched  the  blood. 

The  mild  west-wind  was  soft  and  low, 

It  cooled  the  heat  of  his  burning  brow  ; 

And  lie  felt  new  life  in  his  sinews  shoot, 

As  he  drank  the  juice  of  the  calamus-root ; 

And  now  he  treads  the  fatal  shore 

As  fresh  and  vigorous  as  before. 

Wrapped  in  musing  stands  the  sprite  ; 
'T  is  the  middle  wane  of  night ; 

His  task  is  hard,  his  way  is  far, 
But  he  must  do  his  errand  right 

Ere  dawning  mounts  her  beamy  car, 
And  rolls  her  chariot  wheels  of  light ; 
And  vain  are  the  spells  of  fairy-land,  — 
He  must  work  with  a  human  hand. 

He  cast  a  saddened  look  around  ; 

But  he  felt  new  joy  his  bosom  swell, 
When,  glittering  on  the  shadowed  ground, 

He  saw  a  purple  muscle-shell  ; 
Thither  he  ran,  and  he  bent  him  low, 
He  heaved  at  the  stern  and  he  heaved  at  the  bow, 
And  he  pushed  her  over  the  yielding  sand 
Till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  the  haunted  land. 
She  was  as  lovely  a  pleasure-boat 

As  ever  fairy  had  paddled  in, 
For  she  glowed  with  purple  paint  without, 

And  shone  with  silvery  pearl  within  ; 
A  sculler's  notch  in  the  stern  he  made, 
Aji  oar  he  shaped  of  the  bootle-blade  ; 
Then  sprung  to  his  seat  with  a  lightsome  leap, 
And  launched  afar  on  the  calm,  blue  deep. 


& 


a 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


-nm 


6G1 


The  imps  of  the  river  yell  and  rave. 

They  had  no  power  above  the  wave  ; 

But  they  heaved  the  billow  before  the  prow, 

Ami  they  dashed  the  surge  against  her  side, 
And  they  struck  her  keel  with  jerk  and  blo»v, 

Till  the  gunwale  bent  to  the  rocking  tide. 
She  whiinpled  about  to  the  pale  moonbeam, 
Like  a  feather  that  floats  on  a  wind-tossed  stream  ; 
And  momently  athwart  her  track 
The  quarl  upreared  his  island  back, 
And  the  fluttering  scallop  behind  would  float, 
And  patter  the  water  about  the  boat  ; 
But  he  bailed  her  out  with  his  colen-bell, 

And  he  kept  her  trimmed  with  a  wary  tread, 
While  on  every  side,  like  lightning,  fell 

The  heavy  strokes  of  his  bootle-blade. 

Onward  still  he  held  his  way, 

Till  he  came  where  the  column  of  moonshine  lay 

And  saw  beneath  the  surface  dim 

The  brown-backed  sturgeon  slowly  swim  ; 

Around  him  were  the  goblin  train,  — 

But  he  sculled  with  all  his  might  and  main, 

And  followed  wherever  the  sturgeon  led, 

Till  he  saw  him  upward  point  his  head  ; 

Then  he  dropped  his  paddle-blade, 

And  held  his  colen-goblet  up 

To  catch  the  drop  in  its  crimson  cup. 

With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin 

Through  the  wave  the  sturgeon  flew, 
Ami.  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin, 

He  sprung  above  the  waters  blue. 
Instant  as  the  star-fall  light 

II'-  plunged  him  in  the  dee])  a^ain, 
But  lie  let't  an  arch  of  silver  bright, 

Tin-  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 
It  was  a  strange  ami  lovely  sight 

To  see  the  puny  goblin  there  ; 
lb-  seemed  an  angel  form  of  light, 

With  azure  wing  ami  sunny  hair, 

Throned  on  a  cloud  of  purple  fair, 
Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white, 

And  sitting,  at  the  fall  of  even, 

Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 

A  moment,  and  its  lustre  fell  ; 

I'.ui  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue 
lb'  caughl  within  bis  crimson  bell 

A  droplet  of  its  sparkling  dew,  — 
Joy  to  thee,  fay  '  thy  task  is  done, 
Thy  wings  aic  pure,  lor  the  gem  is  won,  — 
Checrly  ply  thy  dripping  oar, 
Ami  haste  away  to  tin-  elfin  shore. 

l!i-  turn s,  and,  lo  !  on  either 

The  i  ipples  on  his  path  divide  ; 

And  the  track  o'er  which  his  boa!  must  pass 

Is  smool  h  as  a  sheel  of  poli  shed  gl: 


Around,  their  limbs  the  sea-nymphs  lave, 
With  snowy  arms  half  swelling  out, 

While  on  the  glossed  and  gleamy  wave 
Their  sea-green  ringlets  loosely  float. 

They  swim  around  with  smile  and  song  ; 
They  press  the  bark  with  pearly  hand, 

And  gently  urge  her  course  along 
Toward  the  beach  of  speckled  sand, 
And,  as  he  lightly  leaped  to  land, 

They  bade  adieu  with  nod  and  bow  ; 
Then  gayly  kissed  each  little  band, 

And  dropped  in  the  crystal  deep  below. 

A  moment  stayed  the  fairy  there  ; 

He  kissed  the  beach  and  breathed  a  prayer  ; 

Then  spread  his  wings  of  gilded  blue, 
[  And  on  to  the  elfin  court  he  flew. 
j  As  ever  ye  saw  a  bubble  rise, 

And  shine  with  a  thousand  changing  dyes, 

Till,  lessening  far,  through  ether  driven, 
I  It  mingles  with  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 
i  As,  at  the  glimpse  of  morning  pale, 

The  lance-fly  spreads  bis  silken  sail, 

And  gleams  with  blendings  soft  and  bright 

Till  lost  in  the  shades  of  fading  night,  — 

So  rose  from  earth  the  lovely  fay  ; 

So  vanished,  far  in  heaven  away  ! 

Up,  fairy  !  quit  thy  duckweed  bower, 
The  cricket  has  called  the  second  hour  ; 
Twice  again,  and  the  lark  will  rise 
To  kiss  the  streaking  of  the  skies,  — 
Up  !  thy  charmed  armor  don, 
Thou  'It  need  it  ere  the  night  be  gone. 

He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on  ; 

It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle-down  ; 

The  corselet  plate  that  guarded  his  breast 

Was  once  the  wild  bee's  golden  vest  ; 

His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 

Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies  ; 

His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug  queen, 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green  : 

And   the  quivering  lance  which  he  brandished 

bright 
Was  the  stin,^  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain  in  fight. 
Swift  he  bestrode  his  firefly  steed  ; 

lb-  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent-grass  blue  ; 
II'  drove  bis  spurs  of  the  cockle-seed, 

Ami  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he  Hew 
To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow   far 
Tin-  fiery  trail  01  the  rocket-star. 

The  moth-fly,  as  he  shot  in  air, 

Crepl  under  the  leaf,  and  hid  her  there  ; 

The  katydid  forgol  its  lay, 

The  prowling  gnal  fled  fasl  away, 

The  fell  mosquito  checked  his  drone 

And  folded  his  wings  till  the  fa)  was  gone, 


■ff 


G62 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


~T.l 


tfe- 


And  tlie  wily  beetle  dropped  his  head, 
And  fell  on  the  ground  as  if  he  were  dead  ; 
They  crouched  them  close  in  the  darksome  shade, 

They  quaked  all  o'er  with  awe  and  fear, 
For  they  had  felt  the  blue-bent  blade, 

And  writhed  at  the  prick  of  the  eltiu  spear. 
Many  a  time,  on  a  summer's  night, 
When  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  moon  was  bright, 
They  had  been  roused  from  the  haunted  ground 
By  the  yelp  and  bay  of  the  fairy  hound  ; 

They  had  heard  the  tiny  bugle-horn, 
They  had  heard  the  twang  of  the  maize-silk  string, 
When  the  vine-twig  bows  were  tightly  drawn, 

And  the  needle-shaft  through  air  was  borne, 
Feathered  with  down  of  the  hum-bird's  wing. 
And  now  they  deemed  the  courier  ouphe 

Some  hunter-sprite  of  the  elfin  ground, 
And  they  watched  till  they  saw  him  mount  the  roof 

That  canopies  the  world  around  ; 
Then  glad  they  left  their  covert  lair, 
And  freaked  about  in  the  midnight  air. 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 

His  path  the  firefly  courser  bent, 

And  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind 

He  flung  a  glittering  spark  behind  ; 

He  flies  like  a  feather  in  the  blast 

Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  past. 

But  the  shapes  of  air  have  begun  their  work, 
And  a  drizzly  mist  is  round  him  cast ; 

He  cannot  see  through  the  mantle  murk  ; 
He  shivers  with  cold,  but  he  urges  fast ; 

Through  storm  and  darkness,  sleet  and  shade, 
He  lashes  his  steed,  and  spurs  amain,  — 
For  shadowy  hands  have  twitched  the  rein, 

And  flame-shot  tongues  around  him  played, 
And  near  him  many  a  fiendish  eye 
Glared  with  a  fell  malignity, 
And  yells  of  rage,  and  shrieks  of  fear, 
Came  screaming  on  his  startled  ear. 

His  wings  are  wet  around  his  breast, 
The  plume  hangs  dripping  from  his  crest, 
His  eyes  are  blurred  with  the  lightning's  glare, 
And  his  ears  are  stunned  with  the  thunder's  blare. 
But  he  gave  a  shout,  and  his  blade  he  drew, 

He  thrust  before  and  lie  struck  behind, 
Till  he  pierced  their  cloudy  bodies  through, 

And  gashed  their  shadowy  limbs  of  wind  : 
Howling  the  misty  spectres  flew, 

They  rend  the  air  with  frightful  cries  ; 
For  he  has  gained  the  welkin  blue, 

And  the  land  of  clouds  beneath  him  lies. 

Up  to  the  cope  careering  swift, 

In  breathless  motion  fast, 
Fleei  as  the  swallow  cuts  the  drift, 

Or  the  sea-roc  rides  the  blast, 


The  sapphire  sheet  of  eve  is  shot, 

The  sphered  moon  is  past, 
The  earth  but  seems  a  tiny  blot 

On  a  sheet  of  azure  cast. 
0,  it  was  sweet,  in  the.  clear  moonlight, 

To  tread  the  starry  plain  of  even  ! 
To  meet  the  thousand  eyes  of  night, 

And  feel  the  coaling  breath  of  heaven  ! 
But  the  elfin  made  no  stop  or  stay 
Till  he  came  to  the  b  ink  of  the  Milky  Way  ; 
Then  he  checked  his  courser's  foot, 
And  watched  for  the  glimpse  of  the  planet-shoot 

Sudden  along  the  snowy  tide 

That  swelled  to  meet  their  footsteps'  fall, 
The  sylphs  of  heaven  were  seen  to  glide, 

Attired  in  sunset's  crimson  pall  ; 
Around  the  fay  they  weave  the  dance, 

They  skip  before  him  on  the  plain, 
And  one  has  taken  his  wasp-sting  lance, 

And  one  upholds  his  bridle-rein  ; 
With  warblings  wild  they  lead  him  on 

To  where,  through  clouds  of  amber  seen, 
Studded  with  stars,  resplendent  shone 

The  palace  of  the  sylphid  epieen. 
Its  spiral  columns,  gleaming  bright, 
Were  streamers  of  the  northern  light ; 
Its  curtain's  light  and  lovely  flush 
Was  of  the  morning's  rosy  blush  ; 
And  the  ceiling  fair  that  rose  aboon, 
The  white  and  feathery  fleece  of  noon. 

But,  0,  how  fair  the  shape  that  lay 

Beneath  a  rainbow  1  lending  bright  ! 
She  seemed  to  the  entranced  fay 

The  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light ; 
Her  mantle  was  the  purple  rolled 

At  twilight  in  the  west  afar  ; 
'T  was  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold, 

And  buttoned  with  a  sparkling  star. 
Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon 

That  veils  the  vestal  planet's  hue  ; 
Her  eyes,  two  beamlets  from  the  moon, 

Set  floating  in  the  welkin  blue. 
Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam, 
And  the  diamond  gems  which  round  it  gleam 
Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even 
That  ne'er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 

She  was  lovely  and  fair  to  see, 

And  the  elfin's  heart  beat  fitfully  ; 

But  lovelier  far,  and  still  more  fair, 

The  earthly  form  imprinted  there  ; 

Naught  he  saw  in  the  heavens  above 

Was  half  so  dear  as  his  mortal  love, 

For  he  thought  upon  her  looks  so  meek, 
|  And  he  thought  of  the  light  flush  on  her  cheek. 
1  Never  again  might  he  bask  and  lie 


9 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


6G3 


■a 


On  that  sweet  cheek  and  moonlight  eye  ; 

But  in  his  dreams  her  form  to  see, 

To  clasp  her  in  his  revery, 

To  think  upon  his  virgin  bride, 

Was  worth  all  heaven,  and  earth  beside. 

"Lady,"  he  cried,  "  I  have  sworn  to-night, 

On  the  word  of  a  fairy  knight, 

To  do  my  sentence,  task  aright  ; 

My  honor  scarce  is  free  from  stain,  — 

I  may  not  soil  its  snows  again  ; 

Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 

its  mandate  must  be  answered  now." 

Her  bosom  heaved  with  many  a  sigh, 

The  tear  was  in  her  drooping  eye  ; 

lint  she  led  him  to  the  palace  gate, 

And  called  the  sylphs  who  hovered  there, 
And  bade  them  fly  and  bring  him  straight, 

Of  clouds  condensed,  a  sable  car. 
With  charm  and  spell  she  blessed  it  there, 
From  all  the  fiends  of  upper  air  ; 
T  hen  round  him  cast  the  shadowy  shroud, 
And  tied  his  steed  behind  the  cloud  ; 
And  pressed  his  hand  as  she  bade  him  fly 
Far  to  the  verge  of  the  northern  sky, 
For  by  its  wane  and  wavering  light 
There  was  a  star  would  fall  to-night. 

Borne  afar  on  the  wings  of  the  blast, 
Northward  away,  he  speeds  him  fast, 
And  his  courser  follows  the  cloudy  wain 
Till  the  hoof-strokes  fall  like  pattering  rain. 
The  clouds  roll  backward  as  he  flies, 
Each  nickering  star  behind  him  lies, 
And  he  has  reached  the  northern  plain, 
And  backed  his  firefly  steed  again, 
Ready  to  follow  in  its  flight 
The  streaming  of  the  rocket-light. 

The  star  is  yet  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 

But  it  rocks  in  the  summer  gale  ; 
And  now  't  is  fitful  and  uneven, 

And  now  't  is  deadly  pale  ; 
And  now  't  is  wrapped  in  sulphur-smoke, 

And  quenched  is  its  rayless  beam  ; 
And  now  with  a  rattling  thunder-stroke 

It  bursts  in  flash  and  flame. 
As  swift  ;is  the  glance  of  the  arrowy  lance 

That  the  storm-spirit  flings  from  high, 
The  b1  flew  o'er  the  welkin  blue, 

A  -  it  fell  from  the  sheeted  sky. 
As  swift  as  the  wind  in  its  train  behind 

The  elfin  gallops  along  : 
The  funds  of  the  clouds  are  bellowing  loud, 

Bui  the  sylphid  charm  is  strong; 
He  gnllops  unhurt  in  the  shower  "f  fire. 

While  the  cloud-fiends  fly  from  the  bl 
He  watches  each  Hake  till  its  sparks  expire, 


And  rides  in  the  light  of  its  rays. 
But  he  drove  his  steed  to  the  lightning's  speed, 

And  caught  a  glimmering  spark  ; 
Then  wheeled  around  to  the  fairy  ground, 

And  sped  through  the  midnight  dark. 

Ouphe  and  goblin  !  imp  and  sprite  ! 

Elf  of  eve  !  and  starry  fay  ! 
Ye  that  love  the  moon's  soft  light, 

Hither,  —  hither  wend  your  way  ; 
Twine  ye  in  a  jocund  ring, 

Sing  and  trip  it  merrily, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  wing  to  wing, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

Hail  the  wanderer  again 

With  dance* and  song,  and  lute  and  lyre  ; 
Pure  his  wing  and  strong  his  chain, 

And  doubly  bright  his  fairy  fire. 
Twine  ye  in  an  airy  round, 

Brush  the  dew  and  print  the  lea ; 
Skip  and  gambol,  hop  and  bound, 

Piound  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

The  beetle  guards  our  holy  ground, 

He  flies  about  the  haunted  place, 
And  if  mortal  there  be  found, 

He  hums  in  his  ears  and  flaps  his  face  ; 
The  leaf-harp  sounds  our  roundelay, 

The  owlet's  eyes  our  lanterns  be  ; 
Thus  we  sing  and  dance  and  play 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

But  hark  !  from  tower  to  tree-top  high, 

The  sentry-elf  his  call  has  made  ; 
A  streak  is  in  the  eastern  sky, 

Shapes  of  moonlight  !  flit  and  fade  ! 
The  hill-tops  gleam  in  morning's  spring, 
The  skylark  shakes  his  dappled  wing, 
The  day-glimpse  glimmers  on  the  lawn, 

The  cock  has  crowed,  and  the  fays  are  gone. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


SELLA'S   FAIRY   SLIPPERS. 

"See,  mother  dear,"  she  said,    "what  I  have 
fou  lid 

Opon  out  rivulet's  bank  ;  two  slippers,  white 
As  the  midwinter  snow,  and  spangled  o'er 
With  twinkling  points,  likestars,and  ontheedge 
My  name  is  wrought  in  silver  :  read,  I  pray, 
Sella,  the  name  thy  mother,  now  in  heaven. 
Gave  at  my  birth  ;  tnd,  sure,  theyfil  my  feel  !" 
"A  dainty  pair,"  the  prudenf  matron  said, 

"  But  thine  they  are  not.     We  must   lay  them  by 
For  those  whose  careless  hands   have   left   them 
here  ; 


t^- 


-ff 


a- 


664 


POEMS   OF  FANCY. 


■P- 


Or  haply  they  were  placed  beside  the  brook 
To  be  a  snare.     1  cannot  see  thy  name 
Upon  the  border,  —  only  characters 
Of  mystic  look  and  dim  are  there,  like  signs 
Of  some  strange  art ;  nay,  daughter,  wear  them 

not." 
Then  Sella  hung  the  slippers  in  the  porch 
Of  that  broad  rustic  lodge,  and  all  who  passed 
Admired  their  fair  contexture,  but  none  knew 
Who  left  them  by  the  brook.    And  now,  at  length, 
May,  with  her  flowers  and  singing  birds,  had  gone, 
And  on  bright  streams  and  into  deep  wells  shone 
The  high  midsummer  sun.     One  day,  at  noon, 
Sella  was  missed  from  the  accustomed  meal. 
They  sought  her  in  her  favorite  haunts,  they  looked 
By  the  great  rock,  and  far  along  the  stream, 
And  shouted  in  the  sounding  woods  her  name. 
Night  came,  and  forth  the  sorrowing  household 

went 
With  torches  over  the  wide  pasture-grounds 
To  pool  and  thicket,  marsh  and  briery  dell, 
And  solitary  valley  far  away. 
The  morning  came,  and  Sella  was  not  found . 
The  sun  climbed  high,  they   sought  her  still ; 

the  noon, 
The  hot  and  silent  noon,  heard  Sella's  name 
Uttered  with  a  despairing  cry  to  wastes 
O'er  which  the  eagle  hovered.     As  the  sun 
Stooped  toward  the  amber  west  to  bring  the  close 
Of  that  sad  second  day,  and,  with  red  eyes, 
The  mother  sat  within  her  home  alone, 
Sella  was  at  her  side.     A  shriek  of  joy 
Broke  the  sad  silence  ;  glad,  warm  tears  were  shed, 
And  words  of  gladness  uttered.      "  0,  forgive," 
The  maiden  said,  "  that  I  could  e'er  forget 
Thy  wishes  for  a  moment.      I  just  tried 
The  slippers  on,  amazed  to  see  them  shaped 
So  fairly  to  my  feet,  when,  all  at  once, 
1  felt  my  steps  upborne  and  hurried  on 
Almost  as  if  with  wings.     A  strange  delight, 
Blent  with  a  thrill  of  fear,  o'ermastered  me, 
And,  ere  I  knew,  my  plashing  steps  were  set 
Within  the  rivulet's  pebbly  bed,  and  I 
Was  rushing  down  the  current.      By  my  side 
Tripped  one  as  beautiful  as  ever  looked 
From  white  clouds  in  a  dream  ;  and,  as  we  ran, 
She  talked  with  musical  voice  and  sweetly  laughed. 
Gayly  we  leaped  the  crag  and  swam  the  pool, 
And  swept  with  dimpling  eddies  round  the  rock, 
And  glided  between  shady  meadow-banks. 
The  streamlet,  broadening  as  we  went,  became 
A  swelling  river,  and  we  shot  along 
By  stately  towns,  and  under  leaning  masts 
Of  gallant  barks,  nor  lingered  by  the  shore 
Of  blooming  gardens  ;  onward,  onward  still, 
Tin-  same  strong  impulse  bore  me  till,  at  last, 
We  entered  the  great  deep,  and  passed  below 
His  billows,  into  boundless  spaces,  lit 


With  a  green  sunshine.     Here  were  mighty  groves 
Far  down  the  ocean-valleys,  and  between 
Lay  what  might  seem  fair  meadows,  softly  tinged 
With  orange  and  with  crimson.     Here  arose 
Tall  stems,  that,  rooted  in  the  depths  below, 
Swung  idly  with  the  motions  of  the  sea  ; 
And  here  were  shrubberies  in  whose  mazy  screen 
The  creatures  of  the  deep  made  haunt.   My  friend 
Named  the  strange  growths,  the  pretty  coralline, 
The  dulse  with  crimson  leaves,  and,  streaming  far, 
Sea-thong  and  sea-lace.    Here  the  tangle  spread 
Its  broad  thick  fronds,  with  pleasant  bowers  be- 
neath ; 
And  oft  we  trod  a  waste  of  pearly  sands, 
Spotted  with  rosy  shells,  and  thence  looked  in 
At  caverns  of  the  sea  whose  rock-roofed  halls 
Lay  in  blue  twilight.     As  we  moved  along, 
The  dwellers  of  the  deep,  in  mighty  herds, 
Passed  by  us,  reverently  they  passed  us  by, 
Long  trains  of  dolphins  rolling  through  the  brine, 
Huge  whales,  that  drew  the  waters  after  them, 
A  torrent-stream,  and  hideous  hammer-sharks, 
Chasing  their  prey  ;  I  shuddered  as  they  came  ; 
Gently  they  turned  aside  and  gave  us  room." 

Hereat  broke  in  the  mother,  "Sella,  dear, 
This  is  a  dream,  — the  idlest,  vainest  dream." 

"  Nay,  mother,  nay  ;  behold  this  sea-green  scarf, 
Woven  of  such  threads  as  never  human  hand 
Twined  from  the  distaff.     She  who  led  my  way 
Through  the  great  waters  bade  me  wear  it  home, 
A  token  that  my  tale  is  true.      'And  keep,' 
She  said,  '  the  slippers  thou  hast  found,  for  thou, 
When  shod  with  them,  shalt  be  like  one  of  us, 
With  power  to  walk  at  will  the  ocean-floor, 
Among  its  monstrous  creatures,  unafraid, 
And  feel  no  longing  for  the  air  of  heaven 
To  fill  thy  lungs,  and  send  the  warm,  red  blood 
Along  thy  veins.     But  thou  shalt  pass  the  hours 
In  dances  with  the  sea-nymphs,  or  go  forth, 
To  look  into  the  mysteries  of  the  abyss 
Where  never  plummet  reached.    And  thou  shalt 

sleep 
Thy  weariness  away  on  downy  banks 
Of  sea-moss,  where  the  pulses  of  the  tide 
Shall  gently  lift  thy  hair,  or  thou  shalt  float 
On  the  soft  currents  that  go  forth  and  wind 
From  isle  to  isle,  and  wander  through  the  sea.' 

"  So  spake  my  fellow-voyager,  her  words 
Sounding  like  wavelets  on  a  summer  shore, 
And  then  we  stopped  beside  a  hanging  rock 
With  a  smooth  beach  of  white  sands  at  its  foot, 
Where  three  fair  creatures  like  herself  were  set 
At  their  sea-banquet,  crisp  and  juicy  stalks, 
Culled  from  the  ocean's  meadows,  and  the  sweet 
Midrib  of  pleasant  leaves,  and  golden  fruits 
Dropped  from  the  trees  that  edge  the  southern  isles, 
And  gathered  on  the  waves.    Kindly  they  prayed 
That  1  would  share  their  meal,  and  I  partook 


p 


POEMS   OF   FAXCY. 


665        { 


& 


With  eager  appetite,  for  long  had  been 
My  journey,  and  I  left  the  spot  refreshed. 

"  And  then  we  wandered  off  amid  the  groves 
Of  coral  loftier  than  the  growths  of  earth  ; 
The  mightiest  cedar  lifts  no  trunk  like  theirs, 
So  huge,  so  high,  toward  heaven,  nor  overhangs 
Alleys  and  bowers  so  dim.     We  moved  between 
Pinnacles  of  black  rock,  which,  from  beneath, 
Molten  by  inner  tires,  so  said  my  guide, 
Gushed  long  ago  into  the  hissing  brine, 
That  quenched  and  hardened  them,  and  now  they 

stand 
Motionless  in  the  currents  of  the  sea 
That  part  and  flow  around  them.     As  we  went, 
We  looked  into  the  hollows  of  the  abyss, 
To  winch  the  never-resting  waters  sweep 
The  skeletons  of  sharks,  the  long  white  spines 
Of  narwhal  and  of  dolphin,  bone ,  of  men 
Shipwrecked,  and  mighty  ribs  of  foundered  barks ; 
Down  the  blue  pits  we  looked,  and  hastened  on. 

"  But  beautiful  the  fountains  of  the  sea 
Sprang  upward  from  its  bed  ;  the  silvery  jets 
Shot  branching  far  into  the  azure  brine, 
And  where  they  mingled  with  it,  the  great  deep 
Quivered  and  shook,  as  shakes  the  glimmering  air 
Above  a  furnace.     So  we  wandered  through 
The.  mighty  world  of  waters,  till  at  length 
I  wearied  of  its  wonders,  and  my  heart 
Began  to  yearn  for  my  dear  mountain-home. 
I  prayed  my  gentle  guide  to  lead  me  back 
To  tlif  upper  air.      'A  glorious  realm,'  1  said, 
'  Is  this  thou  openest  to  me,  but  I  stray 
Bewildered  in  its  vastness,  these  strange  sights 
And  this  strange  light  oppress  me.     I  must  see 
Tin-  faces  that  I  love,  or  1  shall  die.' 

"She  took  my  hand,  and,  darting  through  the 
waves, 
Brought  me  to  where  the  stream,  by  which  we  came, 
Rushed  into  the  main  ocean.     Then  began 
A  slower  journey  upward.     Wearily 
We  breasted  the  strong  current,  climbing  through 
The  rapids  tossing  high  their  foam.      The  night 
Came  down,  and,  in  the  clear  depth  of  a  pool, 
Edged  with  o'erhanging  rock,  we  took  our  rest 
Till  morning;  audi  slept,  and  dreamed  of  home 
And  thee.    A  pleasant  sight  the  morning  showed  ; 
The  green  Fields  of  this  upper  world,  the  herds 
Thai  grazed  the  bank,  the  light  on  the  ted  clouds, 
The  trees,  with  all  their  host  of  trembling  leaves, 
Lifting  and  lowering  to  the  restless  wind 
Their  branches.     A.s  I  woke  I  saw  them  all 
From  the  clear  stream  ;  yet  strangelywas  my  heart 
raited  between  the  watery  world  and  this, 
And  as  we  journeyed  upward,  ofl  I  thought 

(  If  maivls   I    bad   seen,   and  Stopped  and    turned, 

And  lingered,  till  1  thoughl  of  thee  again  ; 
And  then  again  I  turned  and  clambered  up 
The  rivulet's  murmuring  path,  until  we  came 


Beside  this  cottage  door.     There  tenderly 
My  fair  conductor  kissed  me,  and  I  saw 
Her  face  no  more.     I  took  the  slippers  off. 
0,  with  what  deep  delight  my  lungs  drew  in 
The  air  of  heaven  again,  and  with  what  joy 
I  felt  my  blood  bound  with  its  former  glow  ! 
And  now  I  never  leave  thy  side  again  ! " 

So  spoke  the  maiden  Sella,  with  large  tears 
Standing  in  her  mild  eyes,  and  in  the  porch 
Replaced  the  slippers. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


KILMENY. 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen  ; 
But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira's  men, 
Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing, 
And  pu'  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring,  — 
The  scarlet  hypp,  and  the  hind  berry, 
And  the  nut  that  hung  frae  the  hazel-tree  ; 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
P>ut  lang  may  her  minny  look  o'er  the  wa', 
And  lang  may  she  seek  i'  the  green-wood  shaw  ; 
Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 
And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  hame. 

"When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 
When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead, 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny's  soul  had  been  sung, 
When  the  bedesman  had  prayed,  and  the  dead- 
bell  rung  ; 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin,  when  all  was  still, 
When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin  hill, 
The  wood  was  sear,  the  moon  i'  the  wane, 
The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain,  — 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane  ; 
When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  leme, 
Late,  late  in  the  gloamin  Kilmeny  came  hame  ! 

"  Kilmeny,  Kilmeny.  where  have  you  been  ? 
Lang  bae  we  sought  both  holt  and  den,  — 
By  linn,  by  ford,  and  green-wood  tree  ; 
Vet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  got  you  that  joup  o'  the  lily  sheen  I 
That   bonny  snood  of  the  bilk  sae  green  ? 
And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  was  seen  I 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  V 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 

But  Iiae  smile  was  seen  on    Killneliv's  face  ; 
As  Still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  ee, 
As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emenuit  lea, 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  si  i. 
For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  nol  where, 
And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  uot  declare. 


666 


POEMS   OF  FANCY. 


a 


Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew, 
W  heret  he  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never  blew; 
Bu1  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had  rung, 
And  the  airs  of  heaven  played  round  her  tongue, 
When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had  seen, 
And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been,  — 
A  land  of  love,  and  a  land  of  light, 
Withouten  sun  or  moon  or  night ; 
Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream, 
And  the  light  a  pure  celestial  beam : 
The  land  of  vision  it  would  seem, 
A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 

In  yon  green- wood  there  is  a  waik, 
And  in  that  waik  there  is  a  wene, 

And  in  that  wene  there  is  a  maike, 
That  neither  has  flesh,  blood,  nor  bane  ; 
And  down  in  yon  green-wood  he  walks  his  lane. 

In  that  green  wene  Kilmeny  lay, 
Her  bosom  happed  wi'  the  flowerets  gay  ; 
But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep, 
And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep  ; 
She  kend  nae  mair,  nor  opened  her  ee, 
Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a  far  countrye. 

She  wakened  on  a  couch  of  the  silk  sae  slim, 
All  striped  wi'  the  bars  of  the  rainbow's  rim  ; 
And  lovely  beings  around  were  rife, 
"Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life  ; 
And  aye  they  smiled,  and  'gan  to  speer : 
"  What  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal  here  ?  " 

"  Lang  have  I  journeyed  the  world  wide," 
A  meek  and  reverend  fere  replied  ; 
"  Baith  night  and  day  I  have  watched  the  fair 
Eident  a  thousand  years  and  mair. 
Yes,  I  have  watched  o'er  ilk  degree, 
Wherever  blooms  femenitye  ; 
But  sinless  virgin,  free  of  stain, 
In  mind  and  body,  fand  I  nane. 
Never,  since  the  banquet  of  time, 
Found  I  a  virgin  in  her  prime, 
Till  late  this  bonny  maiden  I  saw, 
As  spotless  as  the  morning  snaw. 
Full  twenty  years  she  has  lived  as  free 
As  the  spirits  that  sojourn  in  this  countrye. 
I  have  brought  her  away  frae  the  snares  of  men, 
That  sin  or  death  she  may  never  ken." 

They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  fair  ; 
They  kissed  her  check,  ami  they  kerned  her  hair  ; 
And  round  came  many  a  blooming  fere, 
Saying,  "  Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye 're  welcome  here; 
Women  are  freed  of  the  littand  scorn  ; 
0,  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 
Now  shall  it  ken,  what  a  woman  may  be  !  " 


They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 
And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a  sunless  day  ; 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  crystal  bright, 
The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light  ; 
The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow, 
And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 
Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid, 
That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade  ; 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven,  when  they  saw  her  lie 
In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by. 
And  she  heard  a  song,  —  she  heard  it  sung, 
She  kend  not  where  ;  but  sae  sweetly  it  rung, 
It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a  dream  of  the  morn,  — 
"0,  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 
Now  shall  it  ken,  what  a  woman  may  be  !  " 

They  bore  her  far  to  a  mountain  green, 
To  see  what  mortal  never  had  seen  ; 
And  they  seated  her  high  on  a  purple  sward, 
And  bade  her  heed  what  she  saw  and  heard, 
And  note  the  changes  the  spirits  wrought  ; 
For  now  she  lived  in  the  land  of  thought.  — 
She  looked,  and  she  saw  nor  sun  nor  skies, 
But  a  crystal  dome  of  a  thousand  dies  ; 
She  looked,  and  she  saw  nae  land  aright, 
But  an  endless  whirl  of  glory  and  light ; 
And  radiant  beings  went  and  came, 
Far  swifter  than  wind  or  the  linked  flame  ; 
She  hid  her  een  frae  the  dazzling  view  ; 
She  looked  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  a  sun  on  a  summer  sky, 
And  clouds  of  amber  sailing  by  ; 
A  lovely  land  beneath  her  lay, 
And  that  land  had  glens  and  mountains  gray  ; 
And  that  land  had  valleys  and  hoary  piles, 
And  marled  seas,  and  a  thousand  isles  ; 
Its  fields  were  speckled,  its  forests  green, 
And  its  lakes  were  all  of  the  dazzling  sheen, 
Like  magic  mirrors,  where  slumbering  lay 
The  sun  and  the  sky  and  the  cloudlet  gray, 
Which  heaved  and  trembled,  and  gently  swung  ; 
On  every  shore  they  seemed  to  be  hung  ; 
For  there  they  were  seen  on  their  downward  plain 
A  thousand  times  and  a  thousand  again  ; 
In  winding  lake  and  placid  firth,  — 
Little  peaceful  heavens  in  the  bosom  of  earth. 

Kilmeny  sighed  and  seemed  to  grieve, 
For  she  found  her  heart  to  that  land  did  cleave  ; 
She  saw  the  corn  wave  on  the  vale  ; 
She  saw  the  deer  run  down  the  dale  ; 
She  saw  the  plaid  and  the  broad  claymore, 
And  the  brows  that  the  badge  of  freedom  boi'e  ; 
And  she  thought  she  had  seen  the  land  before. 


Then  Kilmeny  begged  again  to  see 
The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  countrye, 


■B- 


J 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


667 


To  tell  of  the  place  where  she  had  been, 
And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  nnseen  ; 
To  warn  the  living  maidens  fair, 
The  loved  of  heaven,  the  spirits'  care, 
That  all  whose  minds  nnmeled  remain 
Shall  bloom  in  beauty  when  time  is  gane. 

With  distant  music,  soft  and  deep, 
They  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep  ; 
And  when  she  awakened,  she  lay  her  lane, 
All  happed  with  flowers  in  the  green-wood  wene. 
When  seven  long  years  had  come  and  fled  ; 
When  grief  was  calm,  and  hope  was  dead  ; 
When  scarce  was  remembered  Kilmeny's  name, 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin,  Kilmeny  came  hame  ! 
And  0,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 
But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  ee  ! 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 
For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there  ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maidens'  een 
In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 
Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower, 
And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower  ; 
And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye 
That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 
But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 
And  keeped  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing, 
To  suck  the  flowers  and  drink  the  spring. 
But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appeared, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hills  were  cheered  ; 
The  wolf  played  blythely  round  the  field  ; 
The  lordly  hyson  lowed  and  kneeled  ; 
The  dun  deer  wooed  with  manner  bland, 
And  cowered  aneath  her  lily  hand. 
,  And  when  at  even  the  woodlands  rung, 
When  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  sung 
In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 
0,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion  ! 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 
Broke  from  their  blights  and  faulds  the  tame, 
And  goved  around,  charmed  and  amazed  ; 
Even  the  dull  cattle  crooned  and  gazed, 
And  murmured,  and  looked  with  anxious  pain 
Fni  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 
The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock, 
The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock  ; 
The  blackbird  alang  wi'  the  eagle  flew  ; 
The  hind  came  tripping  o'er  the  dew  ; 
The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began  ; 
And  lie'  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and  the  leveret  ran  ; 
The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung, 
Ami  themerland  themavisforhooyedtheiryoung; 

And  all  in  a  peaceful  ring  were  hurled  : 
It  was  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world  ! 

When  a  month  and  day  had  come  and  gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  green-wood  wene  ; 


There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  sae  green, 

And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair  seen. 

But  0  the  words  that  fell  from  her  mouth 

Were  words  of  wonder,  and  words  of  truth  ! 

But  all  the  land  were  in  fear  and  dread, 

For  they  kend  na  whether  she  was  living  or  dead. 

It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldna  remain  ; 

She  left  this  world  of  sorrow  and  pain, 

And  returned  to  the  land  of  thought  again. 

James  Hogg. 


THE   FAIRIES. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare,  n't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home,  — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  king  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He  's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gi 
They  took  her  lightly  hack, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow  ; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  hed  of  Rag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hillside, 
Through  the  mosses  bare, 


c&- 


•ff 


a- 


668 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


^ 


The}-  have  planted  thorn-trees 
For  pleasure  here  and  there. 

Is  any  man  so  daring 
To  dig  one  up  in  spite, 

He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 
In  his  hed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
"Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


THE  FAIRY  CHILD. 

The  summer  sun  was  sinking 

With  a  mild  light,  calm  and  mellow  ; 

It  shone  on  my  little  boy's  bonnie  cheeks, 
And  his  loose  locks  of  yellow. 

The  robin  was  singing  sweetly, 
And  his  song  was  sad  and  tender  ; 

And  my  little  boy's  eyes,  while  he  heard  the  song, 
Smiled  with  a  sweet,  soft  splendor. 

My  little  boy  lay  on  my  bosom 

While  his  soul  the  song  was  quaffing  ; 

The  joy  of  his  soul  had  tinged  his  cheek, 
And  his  heart  and  his  eye  were  laughing. 

I  sate  alone  in  my  cottage, 

The  midnight  needle  plying  ; 
I  feared  for  my  child,  for  the  rush's  light 

In  the  socket  now  was  dying  ! 

There  came  a  hand  to  my  lonely  latch, 
Like  the  wind  at  midnight  moaning  ; 

I  knelt  to  pray,  but  rose  again, 
For  I  heard  my  little  boy  groaning. 

I  crossed  my  brow  and  I  crossed  my  breast, 
But  that  night  my  child  departed,  — 

They  left  a  weakling  in  his  stead, 
And  I  am  broken-hearted  I 

0,  it  cannot  be  my  own  sweet  boy, 

For  his  eyes  are  dim  and  hollow  ; 
My  little  boy  is  gone  —  is  gone, 

And  his  mother  soon  will  follow. 

The  dirge  for  the  dead  will  be  sung  for  me, 

And  the  mass  be  chanted  meetly, 

And  I  shall  sleep  with  my  little  boy, 

In  the  moonlight  churchyard  sweetly. 

John  Anster. 


SONG   OF   WOOD-NYMPHS. 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  dwell 

In  forest  deep  ! 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  tell 

Why  thou  dost  weep  ! 

Is  it  for  love  (sweet  pain  !) 

That  thus  thou  dar'st  complain 

Unto  our  pleasant  shades,  our  summer  leaves, 

Where  naught  else  grieves  ? 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  lie 

By  whispering  stream  ! 

Here  no  one  dares  to  die 

For  love's  sweet  dream  ; 

But  health  all  seek,  and  joy, 

And  shun  perverse  annoy, 

And  race  along  green  paths  till  close  of  day, 

And  laugh  —  alway  ! 

Or  else,  through  half  the  year, 

On  rushy  floor, 

We  lie  by  waters  clear, 

While  skylarks  pour 

Their  songs  into  the  sun  ! 

And  when  bright  day  is  done, 

We  hide  'neath  bells  of  flowers  or  nodding  corn, 

And  dream  —  till  morn  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


THE   GREEN   GNOME. 

A  melody. 

Ring,  sing  !  ring,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  thorough  dales 

and  dells  ! 
Rhyme,    ring !  chime,    sing  !  pleasant   Sabbath 

bells  ! 
Chime,  sing  !  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields  and  fells  ! 

And  I  galloped  and  I  galloped  on  my  palfrey 

white  as  milk, 
My  robe  was  of  the  sea-green  woof,  my  serk  was 

of  the  silk  ; 
My  hair  was  golden  yellow,  and  it  floated  to  my 

shoe  ; 
My  eyes  were  like  two  harebells  bathed  in  little 

drops  of  dew  ; 
My  palfrey,  never  stopping,  made  a  music  sweetly 

blent 
With  the  leaves  of  autumn  dropping  all  around  me 

as  I  went ; 
And  I  heard  the  bells,  grown  fainter,  far  behind 

me  peal  and  play, 
Fainter,  fainter,  fainter,  till  they  seemed  to  die 

away  ; 
And  beside  a  silver  rurnel,  on  a  little  heap  o 

sand, 


t& 


& 


rS- 


■a 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


669 


I  saw  the  green  gnome  sitting,  with  his  cheek 

upon  his  hand. 
Then  he  started  up  to  see  me,  and  he  ran  with 

cry  and  bound, 
And  drew  me  from  my  palfrey  white  and  set  me 

on  the  ground. 

0  crimson,  crimson  were  his  locks,  his  face  was 

green  to  see, 
But   he  cried,  "  0  light-haired   lassie,  you  are 

bound  to  marry  me  !  ' 
He  clasped  me  round  the  middle  small,  he  kissed 

me  on  the  cheek, 
He  kissed  me  once,  he  kissed  me  twice,  —  I  could 

not  stir  or  speak  ; 
He  kissed  me  twice,  he  kissed  me  thrice,  —  but 

when  he  kissed  again, 

1  called  aloud  upon  the  name  of  Him  who  died 

for  men. 

Sing,  sing  !  ring,  ring  !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  thorough  dales 

and  dells  ! 
Rhyme,    ring  !  chime,  sing  !   pleasant   Sabbath 

bells  ! 
Chime,  sing  !  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields  and  fells  ! 

0  faintly,  faintly,  faintly,  calling  men  and  maids 

to  pray, 
So   faintly,   faintly,   faintly   rang  the   bells  far 

away  ; 
And  as  I  named  the  Blessed  Name,  as  in   our 

need  we  can, 
The  ugly  green  green  gnome  became  a  tall  and 

comely  man  : 
His  hands  were  white,  his  beard  was  gold,  his 

eyes  were  black  as  sloes, 
His  tunic  was  of  scarlet  woof,  and  silken  were  his 

hose  ; 
A  pensive  light  from  Faery  land  still  lingered  on 

his  cheek, 
His  voice  was  like  the  running  brook,  when  he 

began  to  speak  ; 
"  0,  you  have  cast  away  the  charm  my  step-dame 

put  on  me, 
Seven  years  I  dwelt  in  Fae'ryland,  and  you  have 

Set    lilt'  free. 

0,  I  will  mount  thy  palfrey  white,  and  ride  to 

kirk  with  thee, 
And,  by  those  little  dewy  eyes,  we  twain  will 

wedded  be  !" 

Back  we  galloped,  never  stopping,  he  before  and 

1  behind, 
And  the  autumn  leaves  were  dropping,  red  and 

yellow,  in  the  wind  : 
And  the  sun  was  shining  clearer,  and  my  heart 

was  high  and  proud, 
As  nearer,   nearer,   nearer    rang    the  kirk    bells 

sweet  and  loud, 


And  we  saw  the  kirk  before  us,  as  we  trotted 

down  the  fells, 
And  nearer,  clearer,  o'er  us,  rang  the  welcome  of 

the  bells. 

Piing,  sing  !  ring,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  thorough  dales 

and  dells  ! 
Rhyme,    ring  !    chime,    sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath 

bells  ! 

Chime,  sing  !  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields  and  fells  I 

Robert  Buchanan. 


LA   BELLE  DAME   SANS   MERCI. 

"0,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

' '  0,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest 's  done. 

"  I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever-dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too." 

"  I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful,  —  a  fairy's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

"  I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone  ; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

"I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long  ; 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  fairy's  song. 

"  She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild  and  manna-dew  ; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
'I  love  thee  true.' 

"She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  full  sore; 
And  there  1  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 

"And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dreamed — ah,  woe  betide!  — 
The  latesl  dream  I  ever  dreamed 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


& 


-ff 


fl- 


670 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


"  I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  —  death-pale  were  they  all ; 

They  cried,   '  La  belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall  ! ' 

"  I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

"  And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 

Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing." 

John  Keats. 


THE  WATER-FAY. 

The  night  comes  stealing  o'er  me, 

And  clouds  are  on  the  sea  ; 
While  the  wavelets  rustle  before  me 

With  a  mystical  melody. 

A  water-maid  rose  singing 

Before  me,  fair  and  pale  ; 
And  snow-white  breasts  were  springing, 

Like  fountains,  'neath  her  veil. 

She  kissed  me  and  she  pressed  me, 

Till  I  wished  her  arms  away  : 
"Why  hast  thou  so  caressed  me, 

Thou  lovely  water-fay  ?  " 

"0,  thou  need'st  not  alarm  thee, 

That  thus  thy  form  I  hold  ; 
For  I  only  seek  to  warm  me, 

And  the  night  is  black  and  cold." 

"The  wind  to  the  waves  is  calling, 

The  moonlight  is  fading  away  ; 
And  tears  down  thy  cheek  are  falling, 

Thou  beautiful  water-fay  !  " 

"  The  wind  to  the  waves  is  calling, 
And  the  moonlight  grows  dim  on  the  rocks  ; 

But  no  tears  from  mine  eyes  are  falling, 
'T  is  the  water  which  drips  from  my  locks." 

"  The  ocean  is  heaving  and  sobbing, 
The  sea-mews  scream  in  the  spray  ; 

Ami  thy  heart  is  wildly  throbbing, 
Thou  beautiful  water-fay  !  " 

"  My  heart  is  wildly  swelling, 

And  it  beats  in  burning  truth  ; 
For  I  love  thee  past  all  telling,  — 

Thou  beautiful  mortal  youth." 

HENRY  Heine  (German).  Translation 
of  Charles  G.  Leland. 


THE   WATER   LADY. 


Alas,  that  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see  !  — 
I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 
And  fair  was  she  ! 

n. 
I  stayed  awhile  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 

in. 

I  stayed  a  little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore,  in  place  of  red, 
The  bloom  of  water,  —  tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 

IV. 

I  stayed  to  watch,  a  little  space, 
Her  parted  lips,  if  she  would  sing  ; 
The  waters  closed  above  her  face 
With  many  a  ring. 

v. 
And  still  I  stayed  a  little  more,  — 
Alas  !  she  never  comes  again  ! 
I  throw  my  flowers  from  the  shore, 
And  watch  in  vain. 

VI. 

I  know  my  life  will  fade  away,  — 

I  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine  ; 

For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 

But  she 's  divine  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE   FISHER. 

The  waters  purled,  the  waters  swelled,  — 

A  fisher  sat  near  by, 
And  earnestly  his  line  beheld 

With  tranquil  heart  and  eye  ; 
And  while  he  sits  and  watches  there, 

He  sees  the  waves  divide, 
And,  lo  !  a  maid,  with  glistening  hair, 

Springs  from  the  troubled  tide. 

She  sang  to  him,  she  spake  to  him,  — 

"Why  lur'st  thou  from  below, 
In  cruel  mood,  my  tender  brood, 

To  die  in  day's  fierce  glow  ? 
Ah  !  didst  thou  know  how  sweetly  there 

The  little  fishes  dwell, 
Thou  wouldst  come  down  their  lot  to  share, 

And  be  forever  well. 

"  Bathes  not  the  smiling  sun  at  night  — 
The  moon  too  —  in  the  waves  ? 


te- 


-ff 


c=r 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


671 


ft 


Comes  lie  not  forth  more  fresh  and  bright 

From  ocean's  cooling  caves  ? 
Canst  thou  unmoved  that  deep  world  see, 

That  heaven  of  tranquil  blue, 
Where  thine  own  face  is  beckoning  thee 

Down  to  the  eternal  dew  ? 

The  waters  purled,  the  waters  swelled,  — 

They  kissed  his  naked  feet  ; 
His  heart  a  nameless  transport  held, 

As  if  his  love  did  greet. 
She  spake  to  him,  she  sang  to  him  ; 

Then  all  with  him  was  o'er,  — 
Half  drew  she  him,  half  sank  he  in,  — 

He  sank  to  rise  no  more. 

GOETHE.     Translation  of  CHARLES  T.  BROOKS. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  GLOW-WORxM. 

A  nightingale,  that  all  day  long 
Had  cheered  the  village  with  his  song, 
Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet-when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel  —  as  well  he  might  — 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite  ; 
"When,  looking  eagerly  around, 
He  spied,  far  off,  upon  the  ground, 
A  something  shining  in  the  dark, 
And  knew  the  glow-worm  by  his  spark  ; 
So,  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 
The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent, 
Harangued  him  thus,  quite  eloquent,  — 

"  Did  you  admire  my  lamp,"  quoth  he, 
"As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy, 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong, 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song  ; 
For  'twas  the  self-same  Power  divine 
Taught  you  to  sing,  and  me  to  shine  ; 
That  you  with  music,  I  with  light, 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night." 
The  songster  heard  his  short  oration, 
And,  warbling  out  his  approbation, 
Released  him,  as  my  stoiy  tells, 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else. 

William  Cowpf.r. 


THE   MILKMAID. 

A  MILKMAID,  who  poised  a  full  pail  on  her  head, 
Thus  mused  on  her  prospects  in  life,  it  is  said  : 
"Let  me  see,  —  I  should  think  that  this  milk 

will  procure 
One  hundred  good  eggs,  or  fourscore,  to  be  sure. 

"  Well  then,  — stop  a  bit,  — it  must  not  be  for- 
gotten, 


Some  of  these  may  be  broken,  and  some  may  be 

rotten  ; 
But  if  twenty  for  accident  should  be  detached, 
It  will  leave  me  just  sixty  sound  eggs  to  be  hatched. 

"Well,  sixty  sound  eggs,  —  no,  sound  chickens, 

I  mean  : 
Of  these  some  mayrdie,  — we  '11  suppose  seventeen, 
Seventeen  !  not  so  many,  —  say  ten  at  the  most, 
Which  will  leave  fifty  chickens  to  boil  or  to  roast. 

"  But  then  there 's  their  barley  :  how  much  will 

they  need  ? 
Why,  they  take  but  one  grain  at  a  time  when 

they  feed,  — 
So  that  's  a  mere  trifle  ;  now  then,  let  us  see, 
At  a  fair  market  price  how  much  money  there '11  be. 

"Six  shillings  a  pair — five — four — three-and-six, 
To  prevent  all  mistakes,  that  low  price  I  will  fix  ; 
Now  what  will  that  make  ?  fifty  chickens,  I  said, — 
Fifty  times  three-and-sixpence —  I'll  ask  Brother 
Ned. 

"0,   but  stop, — three-and-sixpence   a  pair   I 

must  sell  'em  ; 
Well,  a  pair  is  a  couple,  — now  then  let  us  tell  'em ; 
A  couple  in  fifty  will  go  (my  poor  brain  !) 
Why,  just  a  score  times,  and  five  pair  will  remain. 

"  Twenty-five  pair  of  fowls  —  now  how  tiresome 

it  is 
That  I  can't  reckon  up  so  much  money  as  this  ! 
Well,  there  's  no  use  in  trying,  so  let  's  give  a 

guess,  — 
I  '11  say  twenty  pounds,  and  it  can't  be  no  less. 

"Twenty  pounds,  I  am  certain,  will  buy  me  a  cow, 
Thirty  geese,  and  two  turkeys,  —  eight  pigs  and 

a  sow  ; 
Now  if  these  turn  out  well,  at  the  end  of  the  year, 
I  shall  fill  both  my  pockets  with  guineas,  't  is 

clear." 

Forgetting  her  burden,  when  this  she  had  said, 
The  maid  superciliously  tossed  up  her  head  ; 
When,   alas   for  her  prospects  !   her  milk-pail 

descended. 
And  so  all  her  schemes  for  the  future  were  ended. 

This  moral,  I  think,  may  be  safely  attached,  — 

"Reckon  not  on  your  chickens  before  they  are 

hatched." 

Jeffreys  Taylor. 


THE  TOAD'S  JOURNAL 

[It  Is  said  that  rielznni,  the  traveller  In  Egypt,  discovered  a  living 
toad  in  a  temple  which  had  been  for  ages  burled  in  the  sand.  J 

In  a  land  for  antiquities  greatly  renowned 

A  traveller  had  dug  wide  and  deep  under  ground, 


^ 


--T? 


672 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


A  temple  for  ages  entombed,  to  disclose,  — 
When,  lo  !  he  disturbed,  in  its  secret  repose, 
A  toad,  from  whose  journal  it  plainly  appears 
Tt  had  lodged  in  that  mansion  some  thousands  of 

years. 
The  roll  which  this  reptile's  long  history  records, 
A  treat  to  the  sage  antiquarian  affords : 
The  sense  by  obscure  hieroglyphics  concealed, 
Deep  learningat  length,  with  long  labor,  revealed. 
The  first  thousand  years  as  a  specimen  take,  — 
The  dates  are  omitted  for  brevity's  sake  : 
"Crawled  forth  from  some  rubbish,  and  winked 

with  one  eye  ; 
Half  opened  the  other,  but  could  not  tell  why  ; 
Stretched  out  my  left  leg,  as  it  felt  rather  queer, 
Then  dreAV  all  together  and  slept  for  a  year. 
Awakened,  felt  chilly,  —  crept  under  a  stone  ; 
"Was  vastly  contented  with  living  alone. 
One  toe  became  wedged  in  the  stone  like  a  peg, 
Could  not  get  it  away,  — had  the  cramp  in  my  leg ; 
Began  half  to  wish  for  a  neighbor  at  hand 
To  loosen  the  stone,  which  was  fast  in  the  sand  ; 
Pulled  harder,  then  dozed,  as  I  found  't  was  no 

use  ;  — 
Awoke  the  next  summer,  and  lo  !  it  was  loose. 
Crawled  forth  from  the  stone  when  completely 

awake  ; 
Crept  into  a  corner  and  grinned  at  a  snake. 
Retreated,  and  found  that  I  needed  repose  ; 
Curled  up  my  damp  limbs  and  prepared  for  a  doze ; 
Fell  sounder  to  sleep  than  was  usual  before, 
And  did  not  awake  for  a  century  or  more  ; 
But  had  a  sweet  dream,  as  I  rather  believe  : 
Methought  it  was  light,  and  a  fine  summer's  eve  ; 
And  I  in  some  garden  deliciously  fed 
In  the  pleasant  moist  shade  of  a  strawberry -bed. 
There  fine  speckled  creatures  claimed  kindred  with 

me, 
And  others  that  hopped,  most  enchanting  to  see. 
Here  long  I  regaled  with  emotion  extreme  ;  — 
Awoke,  — disconcerted  to  find  it  a  dream  ; 
Grew  pensive,  —  discovered  that  life  is  a  load  ; 
Began  to  get  wear}'  of  being  a  toad  ; 
Was  fretful  at  first,  and  then  shed  a  few  tears."  — 
Here  ends  the  account  of  the  first  thousand  years. 

MORAL. 

It  seems  that  life  is  all  a  void, 
On  selfish  thoughts  alone  employed  ; 
That  length  of  days  is  not  a  good, 
Unless  their  use  be  understood. 

Jane  Taylor. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER  TOAD. 

Dowx  deep  in  a  hollow,  so  damp  and  so  cold, 
Where  oaks  are  by  ivy  o'ergrown, 


The  gray  moss  and  lichen  creep  over  the  mould, 

Lying  loose  on  a  ponderous  stone. 
Now  within  this  huge  stone,  like  a  king  on  Ms 

throne, 
A  toad  has  been  sitting  more  years  than  is  known ; 
And  strange  as  it  seems,  yet  he  constantly  deems 
The  world  standing  still  while  he  'a  dreaming 

his  dreams,  — 
Does  this  wonderful  toad,  in  his  cheerful  abode 
In  the  innermost  heart  of  that  flinty  old  stone, 
By  the  gray-haired  moss  and  the  lichen  o'ergrown. 

Down  deep  in  the  hollow,  from  morning  till  night, 

Dun  shadows  glide  over  the  ground, 
Where  a  watercourse  once,  as  it  sparkled  with 
light, 
Turned  a  ruined  old  mill-wheel  around  : 
Long  years  have  passed  by  since  its  bed  became 

dry, 
And  the  trees  grow  so  close,  scarce  a  glimpse 

of  the  sky 
Is  seen  in  the  hollow,  so  dark  and  so  damp, 
Where  the  glow-worm  at  noonday  is  trimming 

his  lamp, 
And  hardly  a  sound  from  the  thicket  around, 
Where  the  rabbit  and  squirrel  leap  over  the 

ground, 
Is  heard  by  the  toad  in  his  spacious  abode 
In  the  innermost  heart  of  that  ponderous  stone, 
By  the  gray -haired  moss  and  the  lichen  o'ergrown. 

Down  deep   in   that  hollow  the  bees   never 
come, 
The  shade  is  too  black  for  a  flower  ; 
And  jewel-winged  birds,  with  their  musical  hum, 

Never  flash  in  the  night  of  that  bower  ; 
But  the  cold-blooded  snake,  in  the  edge  of  the 

brake, 
Lies  amid  the  rank  grass  half  asleep,  half  a  wake  ; 
And  the  ashen-white  snail,  with  the  slime  in 

its  trail, 
Moves  wearily  on  like  a  life's  tedious  tale, 
Yet  disturbs  not  the  toad  in  his  spacious  abode, 
In  the  innermost  heart  of  that  flinty  old  stone, 
By  the  gray-haired  moss  and  the  lichen  o'ergrown. 

Down  deep  in  a  hollow  some  wiseacres  sit 
Like  the  toad  in  his  cell  in  the  stone  ; 

Around  them  in  daylight  the  blind  owlets  flit, 
And  their,  creeds  are  with  ivy  o'ergrown  ;  — 

Their  streams  may  go  dry,  and  the  wheels  cease 
to  ply, 

And  theirglimpsesbe  few  of  the  sun  and  the  sky, 

Still  they  hug  to  their  breast  every  time-hon- 
ored guest, 

And  slumber  and  doze  in  inglorious  rest  ; 

For  no  progress  they  find  in  the  wide  sphere  of 
mind, 


c& 


-ff 


\3~ 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


673 


And  the  world 's  standing  still  with  all  of  their 

kind  ; 
Contented  to  dwell  deep  down  in  the  well, 
Or  move  like  the  snail  in  the  crust  of  his  shell, 
Or  live  like  the  toad  in  his  narrow  abode, 
With  their  souls  closely  wedged  in  a  thick  wall 

of  stone, 

By  the  gray  weeds  of  prejudice  rankly  o'ergrown. 

Mrs.  R.  S.  Nichols. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S   SCALES. 

A  monk,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were  o'er, 
Inthe  depth  of  his  cell  with  his  stone-covered  floor, 
Resigning  to  thought  his  chimerical  brain, 
Once  formed  the  contrivance  we  now  shall  explain; 
But  whether  by  magic's  or  alchemy's  powers 
We  know  not ;  indeed,  't  is  no  business  of  ours. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  by  patience  and  care, 
At  last,  that  he  brought  his  invention  to  bear. 
In  youth  't  was  projected,  but  j'ears  stole  away, 
And  ere  't  was  complete  he  was  wrinkled  and  gray ; 
But  success  is  secure,  unless  energy  fails  ; 
And  at  length  he  produced  the  philosopher's 
scales. 

"  What  were  they  ? "  you  ask.     You  shall  pres- 
ently see  ; 
These  scales  were  not  made  to  weigh  sugar  and  tea. 

0  no  ;  for  such  properties  wondrous  had  they, 
That  qualities,  feelings,  and  thoughts  they  could 

weigh, 
Together  with  articles  small  or  immense, 
From  mountains  or  planets  to  atoms  of  sense. 

Naught  was  there  so  bulky  but  there  it  would  lay, 
And  naught  so  ethereal  but  there  it  would  stay, 
And  naught  so  reluctant  but  in  it  must  go  : 
All  which  some  examples  more  clearly  will  show. 

The  first  thing  he  weighed  was  thehead  of  Voltaire, 
Which  retainedall  the  witthathad  ever  been  there. 

As  a  weight,  he  threw  in  a  torn  scrap  of  a  leaf, 
Containing  the  prayer  of  the  penitent  thief; 
When  the  skull  rose  aloft  with  so  sudden  a  spell 
That  it  bounced  like  a  ballon  the  roof  of  the  cell. 

1  Ine  time  he  put  in  Alexander  the  Great, 

With  the  garment  that  Dorcas  had  made  for  a 

weighl  ; 
And  though  clad  in  armor  from  sandals  to  crown, 
The  hero  ruse  up,  and  the  garment  went  down. 

A  long  row  of  aim  hou  es,  amply  endowed 
By  a  we]  led  Pharisee,  busy  and  proud, 

>.'•  \t  loaded  one  scale  ;  while  the  other  was  pressed 
By  those  mites  the  poor  widow  dropped  into  the 
chest '. 


Up  flew  the  endowment,  not  weighing  an  ounce, 
And  down,  down  the  farthing- worth  came  with 
a  bounce. 

By  further  experiments  (no  matter  how) 

He  found  that  ten  chariots  weighed  less  than 

one  plough  ; 
A  sword  with  gilt  trapping  rose  up  in  the  scale, 
Though  balanced  by  only  a  ten-penny  nail ; 
A  shield  and  a  helmet,  a  buckler  and  spear, 
Weighed  less  than  a  widow's  uncrystallized  tear. 

A  lord  and  a  lady  went  up  at  full  sail, 
When  a  bee  chanced  to  light  on  the  opposite  scale; 
Ten  doctors,  ten  lawyers,  two  courtiers,  one  earl, 
Ten  counsellors'  wigs,  full  of  powder  and  curl, 
All  heaped  in  one  balance  and  swinging  from 

thence,    . 
Weighed  less  than  a  few  grains  of  candor  and  sense ; 
A  first-water  diamond,  with  brilliants  begirt, 
Than  one  good  potato  just  washed  from  the  dirt  ; 
Yet  not  mountains  of  silver  and  gold  could  suffice 
One  pearl  to  outweigh,  —  't  was  the  pearl  of 

GREAT  PRICE. 

Last  of  all,  the  whole  world  was  bowled  in  at  the 
grate, 

With  the  soul  of  a  beggar  to  serve  for  a  weight, 

When  the  former  sprang  up  with  so  strong  a  re- 
buff 

That  it  made  a  vast  rent  and  escaped  at  the  roof ! 

When  balanced  in  air,  it  ascended  on  high, 

And  sailed  up  aloft,  a  balloon  in  the  sky  ; 

While  the  scale  with  the  soul  in't  so  mightily  fell 

That  it  jerked  the  philosopher  put  of  his  cell. 

Jane  Taylor. 


THE  CALIPH  AND   SATAN. 

VERSIFIED  FROM    THOLUCK's   TRANSLATION  OUT   OF   THB 
PERSIAN. 

In  heavy  sleep  the  Caliph  lay, 

When  some  one  called,  "Arise,  and  pray  !  " 

The  angry  Caliph  cried,  "Who  dare 
Rebuke  his  king  for  slighted  prayer  ? " 

Then,  from  the  corner  of  the  room, 

A  voice  cut  sharply  through  the  gloom  : 

"  My  name  is  Satan.     Rise  !  obey 
Mohammed's  law  ;  awake,  and  pray." 

"  Thy  words  are  good,"  the  Caliph  said, 
"  But  their  intent  1  somewhat  dread. 

For  matters  cannot  well  be  worse 

Than  when  the  thief  says,  '  Guard  your  purse  I' 


tS- 


674 


POEMS   OF   FANCY. 


ft 


I  cannot  trust  your  counsel,  friend, 
It  surely  bides  some  wicked  end." 

Said  Satan,  "  Near  the  throne  of  God, 
In  ages  past,  we  devils  trod  ; 

Angels  of  light,  to  us  't  was  given 

To  guide  each  wandering  foot  to  heaven. 

Not  wholly  lost  is  that  first  love, 
Nor  those  pure  tastes  Ave  knew  above. 

Roaming  across  a  continent, 

The  Tartar  moves  his  shifting  tent, 

But  never  quite  forgets  the  day 
When  in  his  father's  arms  he  lay  ; 

So  we,  once  bathed  in  love  divine, 
Eecall  the  taste  of  that  rich  wine. 

God's  finger  rested  on  my  brow,  — 
That  magic  touch,  I  feel  it  now  ! 

I  fell,  't  is  true  —  0,  ask  not  why, 
For  still  to  God  1  turn  my  eye. 

It  was  a  chance  by  which  I  fell, 
Another  takes  me  back  from  hell. 

'T  was  but  my  envy  of  mankind, 
The  envy  of  a  loving  mind. 

Jealous  of  men,  I  could  not  bear 
God's  love  with  this  new  race  to  share. 

But  yet  God's  tables  open  stand, 
His  guests  flock  in  from  every  land  ; 

Some  kind  act  toward  the  race  of  men 
May  toss  us  into  heaven  again. 

A  game  of  chess  is  all  we  see,  — 
And  God  the  player,  pieces  we. 

White,  black  —  queen,  pawn, — 't  is  all  thesame, 
For  on  both  sides  he  plays  the  game. 

Moved  to  and  fro,  from  good  to  ill, 
AVe  rise  and  fall  as  suits  his  will." 

The  Caliph  said,  "  If  this  be  so, 
I  know  not,  but  thy  guile  I  know  ; 


For  how  can  I  thy  words  believe, 
"When  even  God  thou  didst  deceive  ? 

A  sea  of  lies  art  thou,  —  our  sin 
Only  a  drop  that  sea  within." 

"Not  so,"  said  Satan,  "I  serve  God, 
His  angel  now,  and  now  his  rod. 

In  tempting  I  both  bless  and  curse, 
Make  good  men  better,  bad  men  worse. 

Good  coin  is  mixed  with  bad,  my  brother, 
I  but  distinguish  one  from  the  other." 

"Granted,"  the  Caliph  said,  "but  still 
You  never  tempt  to  good,  but  ill. 

Tell  then  the  truth,  for  well  I  know 
You  come  as  my  most  deadly  foe." 

Loud  laughed  the  fiend .    "  You  know  me  well, 
Therefore  my  purpose  I  will  tell. 

If  you  had  missed  your  prayer,  I  knew 
A  swift  repentance  would  ensue. 

And  such  repentance  would  have  been 
A  good,  outweighing  far  the  sin. 

I  chose  this  humbleness  divine, 

Borne  out  of  fault,  should  not  be  thine, 


Preferring  prayers  elate  with  pride 
To  sin  with  penitence  allied." 


J.  F.  C. 


ATRY  NOTHINGS. 


FROM        THE  TEMPEST. 


Our  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air  ; 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.     We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


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POEMS    OF  TRAGEDY. 


■a 


THE  EXECUTION   OF   MONTROSE. 

EXECUTED    1650. 

The  morning  dawned  full  darkly, 

The  rain  came  flashing  down, 
And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  levin-bolt 

Lit  up  the  gloomy  town. 
The  thunder  crashed  across  the  heaven, 

The  fatal  hour  was  come  ; 
Yet  aye  broke  in,  with  muffled  beat, 

The  'larum  of  the  drum. 
There  was  madness  on  the  earth  below 

And  anger  in  the  sky, 
And  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor, 

Came  forth  to  see  him  die. 

Ah  God  !  that  ghastly  gibbet ! 

How  dismal  't  is  to  see 
Tin'  great  tall  spectral  skeleton, 

The  ladder  and  the  tree  ! 
Hark  !  hark  !  it  is  the  clash  of  arms, — 

The  bells  begin  to  toll,  — 
"  He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! 

God's  mercy  on  his  soul  !  " 
One  last  long  peal  of  thunder,  — 

The  clouds  are  cleared  away, 
And  the  glorious  sun  once  more  looks  down 

Amidst  the  dazzling  day. 

•'  I  Ir  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! " 

Like  a  bridegroom  from  Ins  room 
Came  the  hero  from  his  prison 

To  the  scaffold  and  the  doom. 
There  was  glory  on  his  forehead, 

There  was  lustre  in  his  eye, 
And  he  never  walked  to  liattle 

More  proudly  than  to  die. 
There  was  color  in  his  visage, 

Though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan; 
And  they  marvelled  as  they  saw  him  pass, 

Thai  great  and  goodly  man  ! 

He  mounted  np  the  scaffold, 

And  he  turned  turn  to  the  crowd  ; 
But  they  dared  not  trusl  the  people, 


So  he  might  not  speak  aloud. 
But  he  looked  upon  the  heavens, 

And  they  were  clear  and  blue, 
And  in  the  liquid  ether 

The  eye  of  G  od  shone  through  : 
Yet  a  black  and  murky  battlement 

Lay  resting  on  the  hill, 
As  though  the  thunder  slept  within,  — 

All  else  was  calm  and  still. 

The  grim  Geneva  ministers 

With  anxious  scowl  drew  near, 
As  you  have  seen  the  ravens  flock 

Around  the  dying  deer. 
He  would  not  deign  them  word  nor  sign, 

But  alone  he  bent  the  knee  ; 
And  veiled  bis  face  for  Christ's  dear  grace 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree. 
Then,  radiant  and  serene,  he  rose, 

And  cast  his  cloak  away  ; 
For  he  had  ta'en  his  latest  look 

Of  earth  and  sun  and  day. 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o'er  him, 

Like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 
And  he  climbed  the  lofty  ladder 

As  it  were  the  path  to  heaven. 
Then  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud, 

And  a  stunning  thunder-roll  ; 
And  no  man  dared  to  look  aloft, 

For  fear  was  on  every  soul. 
There  was  another  heavy  sound, 

A  hush,  and  then  a  groan  ; 
And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky,  — 

The  work  of  death  was  done  ! 

William  Ldmondstoune  Aytoun. 


THE   NUN. 


FROM         ITALY. 


'T  is  over  ;  and  her  lovely  cheek  is  now 
On  her  hard  pillow,  —  there,  alas  !  to  be 
Nightly,  through  many  and  many  a  dreary  hour 
Wan,  often  wet  with  tears,  and  (ere  at  Length 


-ff 


a 


C7S 


POEMS   OF   TRAGF.DV. 


Her  place  is  empty,  and  another  comes) 
In  anguish,  in  the  ghastliness  of  death  ; 
Hers  nevermore  to  leave  those  mournful  walls, 
Even  on  her  bier. 

'T  is  over  ;  and  the  rite, 
With  all  its  pomp  and  harmony,  is  now 
Floating  before  her.     She  arose  at  home, 
To  be  the  show,  the  idol  of  the  day  ; 
Her  vesture  gorgeous,  and  her  starry  head,  — 
No  rocket,  bursting  in  the  midnight  sky, 
So  dazzling.     When  to-morrow  she  awakes, 
She  will  awake  as  though  she  still  was  there, 
Still  in  her  father's  house  ;  and  lo,  a  cell 
Narrow  and  dark,   naught    through  the    gloom 

discerned,  — 
Naught  save  the  crucifix  and  rosary, 
And  the  gray  habit  lying  by  to  shroud 
Her  beauty  and  grace. 

AVhen  on  her  knees  she  fell, 
Entering  the  solemn  place  of  consecration, 
And  from  the  latticed  gallery  came  a  chant 
Of  psalms,  most  saint-like,  most,  angelical, 
Verse  alter  verse  sung  out,  how  holily  ! 
The  strain  returning,  and  still,  still  returning, 
Methought  it  acted  like  a  spell  upon  her, 
And  she  was  casting  off  her  earthly  dross  ; 
Yet  was  it  sad  and  sweet,  and,  ere  it  closed, 
Came  likea  dirge.    Whenher  fair  head  was  shorn, 
And  the  long  tresses  in  her  hands  were  laid, 
That  she  might  fling  them  from  her,  saying, — 

"Thus, 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world  and  worldly  things  !" 
When,  as  she  stood,  her  bridal  ornaments 
Were  one  by  one  removed,  even  to  the  last, 
Thai  she  might,  say,  Hinging  them  from  her,  — 

"Thus, 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world  !  "     When  all  was 

changed, 
And  as  a  nun  in  homeliest  guise  she  knelt, 
Veiled  inherveil,  crowned  with  her  silver  crown, 
Ibr  crown  of  lilies  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 
Well  might  her  strength  forsake  her,  and  her  knees 
Fail  in  that  hour  !    Well  might  the  holy  man, 
lie  at  whose  foot  she  knelt,  give  as  by  stealth 
('T  whs  in  her  utmost  need  ;  nor,  while  she  lives, 
Will  it  go  from  her,  fleeting  as  it  was) 
That  faint  but  fatherly  smile,  that  smile  of  love 
And  j'ity  ! 

Like  a  dream  the  whole  is  fled  ; 
And  they  that  came  in  idleness  to  gaze 
Upon  the  victim  dressed  for  sacrifice 
Are  mingling  with  the  world  ;  thou  in  thy  cell 
Forgot,  Teresa  !     Yet  among  them  all 
None  were    o  formed  to  love  and  to  beloved, 
None  to  delight,  adorn  ;  and  on  thee  now 

A  curtain,  blacker  than  the  night,  is  dropped 

Forever  !     In  thy  gentle  bosom  sleep 
Feelings,  affections,  destined  now  to  die  ; 


To  wither  like  the  blossom  in  the  bud,  — 

Those  of  a  wife,  a  mother  ;  leaving  there 

A  cheerless  void,  a  chill  as  of  the  grave, 

A  languor  and  a  lethargy  of  soul, 

Death-like,  and  gathering  more  and  more,  till 

Death 
Comes  to  release  thee.     Ah  !  what  now  to  thee, 
What  now  to  thee  the  treasures  of  thy  youth  ? 
As  nothing  !  SAMUEL  R0GERS. 


IPHIGENEIA  AND  AGAMEMNON. 

IPHIGENEIA,  when  she  heard  her  doom 
At  Aulis,  and  when  all  beside  the  king 
Had  gone  away,  took  his  right  hand,  and  said  : 
"  0  father  !  I  am  young  and  very  happy. 
I  do  not  think  the  pious  Calchas  heard 
Distinctly  what  the  goddess  spake  ;  old  age 
( tbscures  the  senses.     If  my  nurse,  who  knew 
My  voice  so  well,  sometimes  misunderstood, 
While  I  was  resting  on  her  knee  both  arms, 
And  hitting  it  to  make  her  mind  my  words, 
And  looking  in  her  face,  and  she  in  mine, 
Might  not  he,  also,  hear  one  word  amiss, 
Spoken  from  so  far  off,  even  from  Olympus  ?" 
The  father  placed  his  cheek  upon  her  head, 
And  tears  dropt  down  it  ;  but  the  king  of  men 
Replied  not.     Then  the  maiden  spake  once  more : 
"0  father  !  sayest  thou  nothing  ?    Hearest  thou 

not 
Me,  whom  thou  ever  hast,  until  this  hour, 
Listened  to  fondly,  and  awakened  me 
To  hear  my  voice  amid  the  voice  of  birds, 
When  it  was  inarticulate  as  theirs, 
And  the  down  deadened  it  within  the  nest?" 
He  moved  her  gently  from  him,  silent  still  ; 
And  this,  and  this  alone,  brought  tears  from  her, 
Although  she  saw  fate  nearer.     Then  with  sighs  : 
"  I  thought  to  have  laid  down  my  hair  before 
Benignant  Artemis,  and  not  dimmed 
Her  polished  altar  with  my  virgin  blood  ; 
I  thought  to  have  selected  the  wdiite  flowers 
To  please  the  nymphs,  and  to  have  asked  of  each 
By  name,  and  with  no  sorrowful  regret, 
Whether,  since  both  my  parents  willed  the  change, 
I  might  at  Hymen's  feet  bend  my  dipt  brow  ; 
And  (after  these  who  mind  us  girls  the  most) 
Adore  our  own  Athene,  that  she  would 
Regard  me  mildly  with  her  azure  eyes,  — 
But,  father,  to  see  you  no  more,  and  see 
Your  love,  0  father  !  go  ere  1  am  gone  !" 
Gently  he  moved  her  off,  and  drew  her  back, 
Bending  his  lofty  head  far  over  hers  ; 
And  the  dark  depths  of  nature  heaved  and  burst. 
He  turned  away,  — not  far,  but  silent  still. 
She  now  first  shuddered  ;  for  in  him,  so  nigh, 


tft- 


-ff 


r& 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


679 


So  long  a  silence  seemed  the  approach  of  death, 

And  like  it.     Once  again  she  raised  her  voice  : 

"  0  father !  if  the  ships  are  now  detained, 

And  all  your  vows  move  not  the  gods  above, 

When  the  knife  strikes  me  there  will  be  one  prayer 

The  less  to  them  ;  and  purer  can  there  be 

Any,  or  more  fervent,  than  the  daughter's  prayer 

For  her  dear  father's  safety  and  success  ?  " 

A  groan  that  shook  him  shook  not  his  resolve. 

An  aged  man  now  entered,  and  without 

One  word  stepped  slowdy  on,  and  took  the  wrist 

Of  the  pale  maiden.     She  looked  up,  and  saw 

The  fillet  of  the  priest  and  calm,  cold  eyes. 

Then  turned  she  where  her  parent  stood,  and  cried : 

"  0  father  !  grieve  no  more  ;  the  ships  can  sail." 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


THE  CURSE  OF   KEHAMA. 

I  CHARM  thy  life, 

From  the  weapons  of  strife, 

From  stone  and  from  wood, 

From  fire  and  from  flood, 
From  the  serpent's  tooth, 

And  the  beast  of  blood. 
From  sickness  1  charm  thee, 
And  time  shall  not  harm  thee  ; 

But  earth,  which  is  mine, 
Its  fruits  shall  deny  thee  ; 

And  water  shall  hear  me, 

And  know  thee  and  ilee  thee  : 
And  the  winds  shall  not  touch  thee 

When  they  pass  by  thee, 
And  the  dews  shall  not  wet  thee 
When  they  fall  nigh  thee. 

And  thou  slialt  seek  death, 
To  release  thee,  in  vain  ; 
Thou  shalt  live  in  thy  pain, 
While  Kehama  shall  reign, 

With  a  fire  in  thy  heart, 
And  a  lire  in  thy  brain. 

And  sleep  shall  obey  me, 
And  visit  thee  never, 

And  the  curse  shall  be  on  thee 
Forever  and  ever. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


t 


HAMLET    REPROACHING    THE    QUEEN. 

FROM    "HAMLET,    PKINCE   OF    DENMARK." 

IIami.it.   Leave   wringing    of    your    hands  : 
peai  e  !  sit  you  down, 
And  lei  me  wring  your  head  :  for  so  I  shall, 
It  it  be  made  of  penetrahle  BtufF ; 
If  damn 6d  custom  have  nol  brazed  it  bo, 
Ihat  it  is  proof  and  bulwark  againsl  sense. 


Queen.  What  have  I  done,  that  thou  dar'st 
wag  thy  tongue 
In  noise  so  rude  against  me  ? 

Ham.  Such  an  act, 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty  ; 
Calls  virtue,  hypocrite  ;  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love, 
And  sets  a  blister  there  ;  makes  marriage  vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths  :  0,  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul ;  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words  :  Heaven's  face  doth  glow  ; 
Yea,  this  solidity  and  compound  mass, 
With  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom, 
Is  thought-sick  at  the  act. 

Queex.  Ah  me,  what  act, 

That  roars  so  loud,  and  thunders  in  the  index  ? 

Ham.   Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on 
this,  — 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers. 
See,  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow  ; 
Hyperion's  curls  ;  the  front  of  Jove  himself ; 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command  ; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 
A  combination,  and  a  form,  indeed, 
Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  lws  seal, 
To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man  : 
This  was  your  husband.     Look  you  now,  what 

follows  : 
Here  is  your  husband  ;  like  a  mildewed  ear, 
Blasting  his  wholesome  brother.    Have  you  eyes  ? 
Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed, 
And  batten  on  this  moor  \     Ha  !  have  you  eyes  \ 
You  cannot  call  it  love  ;  for,  at  your  a< 
The  hey-day  in  the  Mood  is  tame,  it 's  humble, 
And  waits  upon  thejudgment:  and  what  judgment 
Would  step  from  this  to  this  ?     Sense,  sure,  you 

have, 
Else,  could  you  not  have  motion  :  but,  sure,  that 

sense 
Is  apoplexed  :  for  madness  would  not  err  ; 

Nor  sense  tO  ecstasy  was  ne'er  SO  thralled 

But  it  reserved  some  quantity  of  choice, 

To  serve  in  such  a  difference.     Whal  devil  was  't 

That  thus  hath  cozened  you  a1  h Iman-blind! 

Eyes  without  feeling,  feeling  withoul  sight, 
Ears  without  hands  or  eyes,  smelling  sans  all, 
Or  bul  a  sickly  pari  of  one  true  sense 
( lould  not  so  mope. 

it    name!  where  is  thy  blush  ?     Rebellious  hell, 
[fthou  cansl  murine  in  a  matron's  bones, 
To  flaming  youth  let  virtue  !»•  as  wax, 
And  melt  in  her  own  lire  :    proclaim  no  shame 
When  the  compulsive,  ardor  gives  the  charge, 
Since  frosl  itself  as  actively  doth  hum, 
And  reason  panders  will. 
Qi  i  ( i  1 1. unlet,  speak  no  more  : 


fl- 


G80 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


Thou  turn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul ; 
And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots, 
As  will  not  leave  their  tinct. 

0,  speak  to  me  no  more  ; 
These  words,  like  daggers,  enter  in  mine  ears  ; 
No  more,  sweet  Hamlet ! 

Ham.  A  murderer,  and  a  villain  ; 

A  slave,  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tithe 
Of  your  precedent  lord  ;  a  Vice  of  kings  ; 
A  cutpurse  of  the  empire  and  the  rule, 
That  from  a  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole, 
And  put  it  in  his  pocket  ! 

Queen.  No  more. 

Ham.  A  king  of  shreds  and  patches,  — 

Eater  Ghost. 

Save  me,  and  hover  o'er  me  with  your  wings, 
You  heavenly  guards  !  —  What  would  your  gra- 
cious figure  ? 

Queen.  Alas,  he 's  mad  ! 

Ham  .  Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to  chide, 
That,  lapsed  in  time  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
The  important  acting  of  your  dread  command  ? 
0,  say  ! 

Ghost.  Do  not  forget :  this  visitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  purpose. 
But  look,  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits  : 
0,  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul,  — 
Conceit  in  weakest  bodies  strongest  works,  — 
Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ? 

Queen.  Alas,  how  is  't  with  you, 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy, 
And  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  discourse  ? 
Forth  at  your  eyes  your  spirits  wildly  peep  ; 
And,  as  the  sleeping  soldiers  in  the  alarm, 
Your  bedded  hair,  like  life  in  excrements, 
Starts  up,  and  stands  on  end.     0  gentle  son, 
Upon  the  heat  and  flame  of  thy  distemper 
Sprinkle  cool  patience.     Whereon  do  you  look  ? 

Ham.   On  him  !  on  him  !    Look  you,  how  pale 
he  glares  ! 
His  form  and  cause  conjoined,  preaching  to  stones^ 
Would  make  them  capable.  —  Do  not  look  upon 

me ; 
Lest  with  this  piteous  action  you  convert 
My  stern  effects  :  then,  what  I  have  to  do 
Will  want  true  color  ;  tears,  perchance,  for  blood. 

QUEEN.  To  whom  do  you  speak  this  ? 

Ham.  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ? 

Queen.  Nothing  at  all  ;  yet  all,  that  is,  I  see. 

Ham.   Nor  did  you  nothing  hear  P 

QUEEN.  No,  nothing,  but  ourselves. 

Ham.   Why,  look  you  there  !  look,  how  it  steals 
away  ! 
Sly  father,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  ! 
Look,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  out  at  the  portal  ! 

[Exit  Ghost. 


Queen.  This  is  the  very  coinage  of  your  brain : 
This  bodiless  creation  ecstasy 
Is  very  cunning  in. 

Ham.  Ecstasy  ! 
My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep  time, 
And  makes  as  healthful  music  :  it  is  not  madness 
That  I  have  uttered  :  bring  me  to  the  test 
And  I  the  matter  will  re-word  ;  which  madness 
Would  gambol  from.     Mother,  for  love  of  grace, 
Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul, 
That  not  your  trespass,  but  my  madness,  speaks  : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place, 
Whilst  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within, 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  heaven  ; 
Repent  what 's  past ;  avoid  what  is  to  come  ; 
And  do  not  spread  the  compost  on  the  weeds, 
To  make  them  ranker.   Forgive  me  this  my  virtue ; 
For  in  the  fatness  of  these  pursy  times, 
Virtue  itself  of  vice  must  pardon  beg, 
Yea,  curb  and  woe,  for  leave  to  do  him  good. 

Queen.   0  Hamlet,  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart 
in  twain  ! 

Ham.  0,  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it, 

And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 

Good  night :  but  go  not  to  mine  uncle's  bed  ; 

Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not. 

Once  more,  good  night  : 

And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  blessed, 

I  '11  blessing  beg  of  you. 

I  must  be  cruel,  only  to  be  kind  : 

Thus  bad  begins,  and  worse  remains  behind. 

Shakespeare. 


COUNTESS   LAURA. 

It  was  a  dreary  day  in  Padua. 

The  Countess  Laura,  for  a  single  year 

Fernando's  wife,  upon  her  bridal  bed, 

Like  an  uprooted  lily  on  the  snow, 

The  withered  outcast  of  a  festival, 

Lay  dead.     She  died  of  some  uncertain  ill, 

That  struck  her  almost  on  her  wedding  day, 

And  clung  to  her,  and  dragged  her  slowly  down, 

Thinning  her  cheeks  and  pinching  her  full  lips, 

Till,  in  her  chance,  it  seemed  that  with  a  year 

Full  half  a  century  was  overpast. 

In  vain  had  Paracelsus  taxed  his  art, 

And  feigned  a  knowledge  of  her  malady  ; 

In  vain  had  all  the  doctors,  far  and  near, 

Gathered  around  the  mystery  of  her  bed, 

Draining  her  veins,  her  husband's  treasury, 

And  physic's  jargon,  in  a  fruitless  quest 

For  causes  equal  to  the  dread  result. 

The  Countess  only  smiled  when  they  were  gone, 

Hugged  her  fair  body  with  her  little  hands, 

And  turned  upon  her  pillows  wearily, 

As  though  she  fain  would  sleep  no  common  sleep, 

But  the  long,  breathless  slumber  of  the  grave. 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


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She  hinted  nothing.     Feeble  as  she  was, 
The  rack  could  not  have  wrung  her  secret  out. 
The  Bishop,  when  he  shrived  her,  coming  forth, 
Cried,  in  a  voice  of  heavenly  ecstasy, 
"  0  blessed  soul  !  with  nothing  to  confess 
Save  virtues   and  good  deeds,  which  she  mis- 
takes — 
So  humble  is  she  —  for  our  human  sins  !  " 
Praying  for  death,  she  tossed  upon  her  bed 
Day  after  day  ;  as  might  a  shipwrecked  bark 
That  rocks  upon  one  billow,  and  can  make 
No  onward  motion  towards  her  port  of  hope. 
At  length,  one  morn,  when  those  around  her  said, 
"Surely  the  Countess  mends,  so  fresh  a  light 
Beams  from  her  eyes  and  beautifies  her  face,"  — 
One  morn  in  spring,  when  every  flower  of  earth 
Was  opening  to  the  sun,  and  breathing  up 
Its  votive  incense,  her  impatient  soul 
Opened  itself,  and  so  exhaled  to  heaven. 
When  the  Count  heard  it,  he  reeled  back  a  pace  ; 
Then  turned  with  anger  on  the  messenger  ; 
Then  craved  his  pardon,  and  wept  out  his  heart 
Before  the  menial ;  tears,  ah  me  !  such  tears 
As  love  sheds  only,  and  love  only  once. 
Then  he  bethought  him,  "Shall  this  wonder  die, 
And  leave  behind  no  shadow  ?  not  a  trace 
Of  all  the  glory  that  environed  her, 
That  mellow  nimbus  circling  round  my  star  ? " 
So,  with  his  sorrow  glooming  in  his  face, 
He  paced  along  his  gallery  of  art, 
And  strode  among  the  painters,  where  they  stood, 
With  Carlo,  the  Venetian,  at  their  head, 
Studying  the  Masters  by  the  dawning  light 
Of  his  transcendent  genius.    Through  the  groups 
Of  gayly-vestured  artists  moved  the  Count, 
As  some  lone  cloud  of  thick  and  leaden  hue, 
Packed  with  the  secret  of  a  coming  storm, 
Moves   through  the  gold   and  crimson  evening 

mists, 
Deadening  their  splendor.     In  a  moment  still 
Was  <  larlo's  voire,  and  still  the  prattling  crowd  ; 
.And  a  great  shadow  overwhelmed  them  all, 
As  their  white  faces  and  their  anxious  eyes 
Pursued  Fernando  in  his  moody  walk, 
lie  paused,  as  one  who  balances  a  doubt, 
Weighing  two  courses,  then  burst  out  with  this  : 
'■  V'-  all  have  seen  the  tidings  in  my  face  ; 
Or  has  the  dial  ceased  to  register 
Tie-  workings  of  my  hear!  '.    Then  bear  the  bell, 
That  almosl  cracks  its  frame  in  utterance  ; 
The    Countess, — she    is    dead!" —  "Dead!" 

< 'arlo  groaned. 
And  if  a  boll  from  middle  heaven  had  struck 
His  splendid  features  lull  upon  the  brow, 
He  could  not  have  appeared  more  scathed  and 
blanched. 

"I>ead!         dead!"       He    Staggered    to  his    ea.sel- 
IVame, 


And  clung  around  it,  buffeting  the  air 

With  one  wild  arm,  as  though  a  drowning  man 

Hung  to  a  spar  and  fought  against  the  waves. 

The  Count  resumed  :  "I  came  not  here  to  grieve, 

Nor  see  my  sorrow  in  another's  eyes. 

Who  '11  paint  the  Countess,  as  she  lies  to-night 

In  state  within  the  chapel  ?     Shall  it  be 

That  earth  must  lose  her  wholly  ?  that  no  hint 

Of  her  gold  tresses,  beaming  eyes,  and  lips 

That  talked  in  silence,  and  the  eager  soul 

That  ever  seemed  outbreaking  through  her  clay, 

And  scattering  glory  round  it,  —  shall  all  these 

Be  dull  corruption's  heritage,  and  we, 

Poor  beggars,  have  no  legacy  to  show 

That  love  she  bore  us  ?   That  were  shame  to  love, 

And  shame  to  you,  my  masters."    Carlo  stalked 

Forth  from  his  easel  stifHy  as  a  thing 

Moved  by  mechanic  impulse.     His  thin  lips, 

And  sharpened  nostrils,  and  wan,  sunken  cheeks, 

And  the  cold  glimmer  in  his  dusky  eyes, 

Made  him  a  ghastly  sight.  The  throng  drew  l>ack 

As  though  they  let  a  spectre  through.    Then  he, 

Fronting  the  Count,  and  speaking  in  a  voice 

Sounding  remote  and  hollow,  made  reply  : 

"Count,  I  shall  paint  the  Countess.     'T  is  my 

fate,  — 
Not  pleasure,  — no,  nor  duty."    But  the  Count, 
Astray  in  woe,  but  understood  assent, 
Not  the  strange  words  that  bore  it  ;  and  he  Hung 
His  arm  round  Carlo,  drew  him  to  his  breast, 
And  kissed  his  forehead.    At  which  Carlo  shrank  : 
Perhaps  't  was  at  the  honor.     Then  the  Count, 
A  little  reddening  at  his  public  state,  — 
Unseemly  to  his  near  and  recent  loss, — 
Withdrew  in  haste  between  the  downcast  eyes 
That  did  him  reverence  as  he  rustled  by. 

Night  fell  on  Padua.     In  the  chapel  lay 
The  Countess  Laura  at  the  altar's  foot. 
Her  coronet  glittered  on  her  pallid  brows  ; 
A  crimson  pall,  weighed  down  with  golden  work, 
Sown  thick  with  pearls,  and  heaped  with  early 

flowers, 
Draped  her  still  body  almost  to  the  chin  ; 
And  over  all  a  thousand  candles  flamed 
Against  the  winking  jewels,  or  streamed  down 
The  marble  aisle,  and  Hashed  along  the  guard 
Of  men-at-arms  that  slowly  wove  their  turns, 
Backward  and  forward,  through  th  distant  -loom 
When  Carlo  entered,  his  unsteady  feet 
Scarce  bore  him  to  the  altar,  and  his  head 
Drooped  down  so  low  that  all  his  shining  curls 
Poured  on  his  breast,  and  veiled  his  countenani  e 

UpOIl   his  easel  a   ha  lt'-liliished   Work, 

The  secrel  labor  of  his  studio, 
Said  from  the  canvas,  so  thai  none  might  err, 
"  1  am  the  Countess  I. aura."     Carlo  kneeled, 
And  gazed  upon  the  picture  ;  as  if  thus, 


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POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


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Through  those  clear  eyes,  he  saw  the  way  to  heaven. 

Then  he  arose  ;  and  as  a  swimmer  comes 

Forth  from  the  waves,  he  shook  his  locks  aside, 

Emerging  from  his  dream,  and  standing  firm 

Upon  a  purpose  with  his  sovereign  will. 

He  took  his  palette,  murmuring,  "  Not  yet  ! " 

Confidingly  and  softly  to  the  corpse  ; 

And  as  the  veriest  drudge,  who  plies  his  art 

Against  his  fancy,  he  addressed  himself 

With  stolid  resolution  to  his  task. 

Turning  his  vision  on  his  memory, 

And  shutting  out  the  present,  till  the  dead, 

The  gilded  pall,  the  lights,  the  pacing  guard, 

And  all  the  meaning  of  that  solemn  scene 

Became  as  nothing,  and  creative  Art 

Resolved  the  whole  to  chaos,  and  reformed 

The  elements  according  to  her  law  : 

So  Carlo  wrought,  as  though  his  eye  and  hand 

"Were   Heaven's   unconscious   instruments,    and 

worked 
The  settled  purpose  of  Omnipotence. 
And  it  was  wondrous  how  the  red,  the  white, 
The  ochre,  and  the  umber,  and  the  blue, 
From  mottled  blotches,  hazy  and  opaque, 
Grew  into  rounded  forms  and  sensuous  lines  ; 
How  just  beneath  the  lucid  skin  the  blood 
Glimmered  with  warmth  ;  the  scarlet  lips  apart 
Bloomed  with  the  moisture  of  the  dews  of  life  ; 
How  the  light  glittered  through  and  underneath 
The  golden  tresses,  and  the  deep,  soft  eyes 
Became  intelligent  with  conscious  thought, 
And  somewhat  troubled  underneath  the  arch 
Of  eyebrows  but  a  little  too  intense 
For  perfect  beauty  ;  how  the  pose  and  poise 
Of  the  lithe  figure  on  its  tiny  foot 
Suggested  life  just  ceased  from  motion  ;  so 
That  any  one  might  cry,  in  marvelling  joy, 
"That  creature  lives,  — has  senses,  mind,  a  soul 
To  win  God's  love  or  dare  hell's  subtleties  !  " 
The  artist  paused.     The  ratifying  "  Good  !  " 
Trembled  upon  his  lips.     He  saw  no  touch 
To  give  or  soften.      "  It  is  done,"  he  cried,  — 
"  My  task,  my  duty  !     Nothing  now  on  earth 
Can  taunt  me  witli  a  work  left  unfulfilled  !  " 
The  lofty  flame,  winch  bore  him  up  so  long, 
Died  in  the  ashes  of  humanity  ; 
Ami  the  mere  man  rocked  to  and  fro  a«ain 
Upon  the  centre  of  his  wavering  heart. 
He  put  aside  his  palette,  as  if  thus 
He  stepped  from  sacred  vestments,  and  assumed 
A  mortal  function  in  the  common  world. 
"Now  for  my  rights  !"  he  muttered,  and  ap- 
proached 
The  noble  body.     "0  lily  of  the  world  ! 
So  withered,  yet  so  lovely  !  what  wast  thou 
To  those  who  came  thus  near  thee  —  for  1  stood 
Without  the  pale  of  thy  half-royal  rank  — 
When  thou  wast  budding,  and  the  streams  of  life 


Made  eager  struggles  to  maintain  thy  bloom, 
And  gladdened  heaven  dropped  down  in  gracious 

dews 
On  its  transplanted  darling  ?     Hear  me  now  ! 
I  say  this  but  in  justice,  not  in  pride, 
Not  to  insult  thy  high  nobility, 
But  that  the  poise  of  things  in  God's  own  sight 
May  be  adjusted  ;  and  hereafter  I 
May  urge  a  claim  that  all  the  powers  of  heaven 
Shall  sanction,  and  with  clarions  blow  abroad.  — 
Laura,  you  loved  me  !     Look  not  so  severe, 
With  your  cold  brows,  and  deadly,  close-drawn 

lips  ! 
You  proved  it,  Countess,  when  you  died  for  it,  — 
Let  it  consume  you  in  the  wearing  strife 
It  fought  with  duty  in  your  ravaged  heart. 
I  knew  it  ever  since  that  summer  day 
I  painted  Lila,  the  pale  beggar's  child, 
At  rest  beside  the  fountain  ;  when  I  felt  — 

0  Heaven  !  —  the  warmth  and  moisture  of  your 

breath 
Blow  through  my  hair,  as  with  your  eager  soul  — 
Forgetting  soul  and  body  go  as  one  — ■ 
You  leaned  across  myr  easel  till  our  cheeks  — 
Ah  me  !  't  was  not  your  purpose  —  touched,  and 

clung  ! 
Well,  grant 'twas  genius  ;  and  is  genius  naught  ? 

1  ween  it  wears  as  proud  a  diadem  — 

Here,  in  this  very  world  —  as  that  you  wear. 
A  king  has  held  my  palette,  a  grand-duke 
Has  picked  my  brush  up,  and  a  pope  has  begged 
The  favor  of  my  presence  in  his  Rome. 
I  did  not  go  ;  I  put  my  fortune  by. 
I  need  not  ask  you  why  :  you  knew  too  well. 
It  was  but  natural,  it  was  no  way  strange, 
That  I  should  love  you.     Everything  that  saw, 
Or  had  its  other  senses,  loved  you,  sweet, 
And  I  among  them.     Martyr,  holy  saint,  — 
I  see  the  halo  curving  round  your  head,  — 
I  loved  you  once  ;  but  now  I  worship  you, 
For  the  great  deed  that  held  my  love  aloof, 
And  killed  you  in  the  action  !     I  absolve 
Your  soul  from  any  taint.     For  from  the  day 
Of  that  encounter  by  the  fountain -side 
Until  this  moment,  never  turned  on  me 
Those  tender  eyes,  unless  they  did  a  wrong 
To  nature  by  the  cold,  defiant  glare 
With  which  they  chilled  me.     NeverheardI  word 
Of  softness  spoken  by  those  gentle  lips  ; 
Never  received  a  bounty  from  that  hand 
Winch  gave  to  all  the  world.     I  know  the  cause. 
You  did  your  duty,  ■ —  not  for  honor's  sake, 
Nor  to  save  sin  or  suffering  or  remorse, 
Or  all  the  ghosts  that  haunt  a  woman's  shame, 
But  for  the  sake  of  that  pure,  loyal  love 
Yourhusbandboreyou.     Queen,  by  grace  of  God, 
I  bow  before  the  lustre  of  your  throne  ! 
I  kiss  the  edges  of  your  garment-hem, 


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POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


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And  hold  myself  ennobled  !     Answer  me,  — 

If  I  had  wronged  you,  you  would  answer  me 

Out  of  the  dusty  porches  of  the  tomb  :  — 

Ls  this  a  dream,  a  falsehood  ?  or  have  I 

Spoken  the  very  truth  ? "   "The  very  truth  !  " 

A  voice  replied  ;  and  at  his  side  he  saw 

A  form,  half  shadow  and  half  substance,  stand, 

Or,  rather,  rest  ;  for  on  the  solid  earth 

It  had  no  footing,  more  than  some  dense  mist 

That  wavers  o'er  the  surface  of  the  ground 

It  scarcely  touches.     With  a  reverent  look 

The  shadow's  waste  and  wretched  face  was  bent 

Above  the  picture  ;  as  though  greater  awe 

Subdued  its  awful  being,  and  appalled, 

With  memories  of  terrible  delight 

And  fearful  wonder,  its  devouring  gaze. 

"You  make  what  God  makes, — beauty,"  said 

the  shape. 
"And  might  not  this,  this  second  Eve,  console 
The  emptiest  heart  ?   Will  not  this  thing  outlast 
The  fairest  creature  fashioned  in  the  flesh  ? 
Before  that  figure,  Time,  and  Death  himself, 
Stand  baffled  and  disarmed.  What  would  you  ask 
More  than  God's  power,  from  nothing  to  create?" 
The  artist  gazed  upon  the  boding  form, 
And  answered  :   "  Goblin,  if  you  had  a  heart, 
That  were  an  idle  question.     What  to  me 
Is  my  creative  power,  bereft  of  love  ? 
Or  what  to  God  would  be  that  selfsame  power, 
If  so   bereaved?"     "And  yet  the  love,   thus 

mourned, 
You  calmly  forfeited.     For  had  you  said 
To  living  Laura —  in  her  burning  ears  — 
One  half  that  you  professed  to  Laura  dead, 
She  would  have  been  your  own.  These  contraries 
Sort  not  with  my  intelligence.     But  speak, 
Were  Laura  living,  would  the  same  stale  play 
Of  raging  passion  tearing  out  its  heart 
Upon  the  rock  of  duty  be  performed  ? " 
"The  same,  0  phantom,  while  the  heart  I  bear 
Trembled,  but  turned  not  its  magnetic  faith 
From  God's  fixed  centre."     "  If  I  wake  for  you 
This  Laura,  — give  her  all  the  bloom  and  glow 
Of  that  midsummer  day  you  hold  so  dear,  — 
The  smile,  the  motion,  the  impulsive  soul, 
The  love  of  genius,  —  yea,  the  very  love, 
The  mortal,  hungry,  passionate,  hot  love, 
She  bore  you,  flesh  to  flesh,  — would  you  receive 
That  gift,  in  all  its  glory,  at  my  hands  '" 
A  smile  of  malice  curled  the  tempter's  lips, 
And  glittered  in  the  caverns  of  his  eyes, 
Mocking  the  answer.    Carlo  paled  and  shook  ; 
A    wol'ul    Bpasm  went  shuddering    through    his 

frame, 
Curdling  liis  Mood,  and  twisting  his  fair  face 
With  nameless  torture     But  he  cried  aloud, 
Out  of  the  clouds  of  anguish,  from  the  smoke 
Of  very  martyrdom,  "0  God,  she  is  thine  1 


Do  with  her  at  thy  pleasure  !  "  Something  grand, 
And  radiant  as  a  sunbeam,  touched  the  head 
He  bent  in  awful  sorrow.      "Mortal,  see  —  " 
"Dare  not  !     As  Christ  was  sinless,  I  abjure 
These  vile  abominations  !     Shall  she  bear 
Life's  burden  twice,  and  life's  temptations  twice, 
While  God  is  justice?"    "Who  has  made  you 

judge 
Of  what  you  call  God's  good,  and  what  you  think 
God's  evil  ?     One  to  him,  the  source  of  both, 
The  God  of  good  and  of  permitted  ill. 
Have  you  no  dream  of  days  that  might  have  been, 
Had  you  and  Laura  filled  another  fate  ?  — 
Some  cottage  on  the  sloping  Apennines, 
Roses  and  lilies,  and  the  rest  all  love  ? 
I  tell  you  that  this  tranquil  dream  may  be 
Filled  to  repletion.     Speak,  and  in  the  shade 
Of  my  dark  pinions  I  shall  bear  you  hence, 
And  land  you  where  the  mountain-goat  himself 
Struggles  for  footing."     He  outspread  his  wings, 
And  all  the  chapel  darkened,  as  though  hell 
Had  swallowed  up  the  tapers  ;  and  the  air 
Grew  thick,  and,  like  a  current  sensible, 
Flowed  round  the  person,  with  a  wash  and  dash, 
As  of  the  waters  of  a  nether  sea. 
Slowly  and  calmly  through  the  dense  obscure, 
Dove-like  and  gentle,  rose  the  artist's  voice  : 
' '  I  dare  not  bring  her  spirit  to  that  shame  ! 
Know  my  full  meaning,  —  I  who  neither  fear 
Your  mystic  person  nor  your  dreadful  power. 
Nor  shall  I  now  invoke  God's  potent  name 
For  my  deliverance  from  your  toils.     I  stand 
Upon  the  founded  structure  of  his  law, 
Established  from  the  first,  and  thence  defy 
Your  arts,  reposing  all  my  trust  in  that ! " 
The  darkness  eddied  off  ;  and  Carlo  saw 
The  figure  gathering,  as  from  outer  space, 
Brightness  on  brightness  ;  and  his  former  shape 
Fell  from  him,  like  the  ashes  that  fall  off, 
And  show  a  core  of  mellow  fire  within. 
Adown  his  wings  there  poured  a  lambent  flood, 
That  seemed  as  molten  gold,  which  plashing  fell 
Upon  the  floor,  enringing  him  with  flame  ; 
And  o'er  the  tresses  of  his  beaming  head 
Arose  a  stream  of  many-colored  light, 
Like  that  which  crowns  the  morning.   Carlo  stood 
Steadfast,  for  all  the  splendor,  reaching  up 
The  outstretched  palms  of  his  untainted  soul 
Towards  heaven  for  strength.     A  moment  thus  ; 

then  asked, 
With  reverential  wonder  quivering  through 
His  sinking  voice,  "  Who,  spirit,  and  what,  art 

thou?" 
"I  am    that    blessing  which   men  fly  from, — 

Death." 

"Then  take  my  hand,  if  so  Cod  orders  it  ; 
For  Lama  waits  me."   "  Hut,  bethink  thee,  man, 
What  the  world  loses  in  the  loss  of  thee  ! 


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POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


What  wondrous  art  will  suffer  with  eclipse  ! 

"What  unwon  glories  are  in  store  for  thee  ! 

What  fame,  outreaching  time  and  temporal  shocks, 

"Would  shine  upon  the  letters  of  thy  name 

Graven  in  marble,  or  the  brazen  height 

Of  columns  wise  with  memories  of  thee  !  " 

"  Take  me  !     If  I  outlived  the  Patriarchs, 

I  could  but  paint  those  features  o'er  and  o'er  : 

Lo  !  that  is  done."     A  smile  of  pity  lit 

The  seraph's  features,  as  he  looked  to  heaven, 

With  deep  inquiry  in  his  tender  eyes. 

The  mandate  came.   He  touched  with  downy  wing 

The  sufferer  lightly  on  his  aching  heart ; 

And  gently,  as  the  skylark  settles  down 

Upon  the  clustered  treasures  of  her  nest, 

So  Carlo  softly  slid  along  the  prop 

Of  his  tall  easel,  nestling  at  the  foot 

As  though  he  slumbered  ;  and  the  morning  broke 

In  silver  whiteness  over  Padua. 

George  Henry  Boker. 


THE   IMMOLATION  OF  CONSTANCE  DE 
BEVERLEY. 

FROM    "MARMION." 

The  Abbess  was  of  noble  blood, 
But  early  took  the  veil  and  hood, 
Ere  upon  life  she  cast  a  look, 
Or  knew  the  world  that  she  forsook. 
Fair  too  she  was,  and  kind  had  been 
As  she  was  fair,  but  ne'er  had  seen 
For  her  a  timid  lover  sigh, 
Nor  knew  the  influence  of  her  eye. 
Love,  to  her  ear,  was  but  a  name, 
Combined  with  vanity  and  shame  ; 
Her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  joys,  were  all 
Bounded  within  the  cloister  wall  : 
The  deadliest  sin  her  mind  could  reach 
Was  of  monastic  rule  the  breach  ; 
And  her  ambition's  highest  aim 
To  emulate  Saint  Hilda's  fame. 
For  this  she  gave  her  ample  dower 
To  raise  the  convent's  eastern  tower ; 
For  this,  with  carving  rare  and  quaint, 
She  decked  the  chapel  of  the  saint, 
And  gave  the  relic-shrine  of  cost, 
With  ivory  and  gems  embost. 
The  poor  her  convent's  bounty  blest, 
The  pilgrim  in  its  halls  found  rest. 

Black  was  her  garb,  her  rigid  rule 

Reformed  on  Benedictine  school ; 

Her  cheek  was  pale,  her  form  was  spare  ; 

Vigils,  and  penitence  austere, 

Had  early  quenched  the  light  of  youth, 

But  gentle  was  the  dame,  in  sooth  ; 


Though,  vain  of  her  religious  sway, 
She  loved  to  see  her  maids  obey  ; 
Yet  nothing  stern  was  she  in  cell, 
And  the  nuns  loved  their  Abbess  well. 
Sad  was  this  voyage  to  the  dame  ; 
Summoned  to  Lindisfarne,  she  came,  , 
There,  with  Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  old, 
And  Tynemouth's  Prioress,  to  hold 
A  chapter  of  Saint  Benedict, 
For  inquisition  stern  and  strict, 
On  two  apostates  from  the  faith, 
And,  if  need  were,  to  doom  to  death. 

Saint  Hilda's  nuns  would  learn, 
If,  on  a  rock,  by  Lindisfarne, 
Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 
The  sea-born  beads  that  bear  his  name  ; 
Such  tales  had  Whitby's  fishers  told, 
And  said  they  might  his  shape  behold, 

And  hear  his  anvil  sound  ; 
A  deadened  clang,  —  a  huge  dim  form, 
Seen  but,  and  heard,  when  gathering  storm 

And  night  were  closing  round. 
But  this,  as  tale  of  idle  fame, 
The  nuns  of  Lindisfarne  disclaim. 

While  roxmd  the  fire  such  legends  go, 
Far  different  was  the  scene  of  woe, 
Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath, 
Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 

It  was  more  dark  and  lone,  that  vault, 
Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell ; 

Old  Colwulf  built  it,  for  his  fault 
In  penitence  to  dwell, 
When  he,  for  cowl  and  beads,  laid  down 
The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 
This  den  which,  chilling  every  sense 

Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight, 
Was  called  the  Vault  of  Penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  light, 
Was,  by  the  prelate  Sexhelm,  made 
A  place  of  burial  for  such  dead 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin, 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
T  was  now  a  place  of  punishment  ; 
Whence  if  so  loud  a  shriek  were  sent 

As  reached  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  blessed  themselves,  and  said, 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 

Bemoaned  their  torments  there. 

But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile, 
Did  of  this  penitential  aisle 

Some  vague  tradition  go, 
Few  only,  save  the  Abbot,  knew 
Where  the  place  lay  ;  and  still  more  few 
Were  those  who  had  from  him  the  clew 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 


■» 


..-c: 


THE    CO  N  V  E  N  T. 

"  Her  hi'/;-*,  h,-i  /ears,  her  toys,  were  'ill 
Bournlcd  within  the  cloister  wnlU 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


R- 


G85      1 


Victim  and  executioner 

Were  blindfold  when  transported  there. 

In  low  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung, 

From  the  rude  rock  the  side-walls  sprung  ; 

The  gravestones,  rudely  sculptured  o'er, 

Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore, 

Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor ; 

The  mildew-drops  fell  one  by  one, 

•With  tinkling  splash,  upon  the  stone. 

A  cresset,  in  an  iron  chain, 

Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 

With  damp  and  darkness  seemed  to  strive, 

As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive  ; 

And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 

The  awful  conclave  met  below. 

There,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy, 

Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents  three  : 

All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 

The  statutes  of  whose  order  strict 

On  iron  table  lay  ; 
In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone, 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  shown 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray: 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda  there 
Sate  for  a  pace  with  visage  bare, 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  tear-drops  that  for  pity  fell, 

She  closely  drew  her  veil. 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess, 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress, 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  Prioress, 

And  she  with  awe  looks  pale. 
And  he,  that  Ancient  Man,  whose,  sight 
1  Ins  long  been  quenched  by  age's  night, 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brow  alone 
Nor  ruth  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown, 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern,  — 
Sainl  *  luthbert's  Abbot  is  his  style  ; 
For  sanctity  called,  through  the  Isle, 

The  Saint  of  Lindisfarne. 

Before  thcrn  stood  a  guilty  pair  ; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 
Ye1  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  Bex  a  page's  dress  belied  ; 
The  cloak  ami  doublet,  loosely  tied, 

ured  lcr  charms,  but  could  nol  hide. 

Her  Cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew  ; 

And,  "ii  her  doublet  breast, 
She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 
I.'. i-'l  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But  at  (lie  Prioress'  command, 
A  monk  undid  the  silken  hand 
That   tied  lie'  fair, 

And  raise, l  the  bonnet  from  her  head, 

And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread 
In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 


Constance  de  Beverley  they  know, 
Sister  professed  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  church  numbered  with  the  dead, 
For  broken  vows,  and  convent  fled. 

When  thus  her  face  was  given  to  view, 
(Although  so  pallid  was  her  hue, 
It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear 
To  those  bright  ringlets  glistering  fair,) 
Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 
Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy  ; 
And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale 
That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 
And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 
And  of  her  bosom,  warranted 
That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks, 
You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 
Wrought  to  the  very  life,  was  there  ; 
So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair. 

Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul, 
Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed  ; 

Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control, 

Because  his  conscience,  seared  and  foul, 
Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed  : 

One  whose  brute  feeling  ne'er  aspires 

Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 

Such  tools  the  tempter  ever  needs 

To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds  ; 

For  them  no  visioned  terrors  daunt, 

Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt ; 

One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base,  — 

The  fear  of  death,  — alone  finds  place. 

This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl, 

And  shamed  not  loud  to  mourn  and  howl, 

His  body  on  the  floor  to  dash, 

And  crouch,  like  hound  beneath  the  lash  ; 

While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near, 

Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 

Yet  well  the  luckless  wretch  might  shriek, 
Well  might  her  paleness  terror  speak  ! 
For  there  was  seen,  in  thai  dark  wall, 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall. 
Who  enters  at  such  grisly  door, 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  find  exit  more. 
In  each  a  slender  meal  Mas  laid 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread  : 

ach,  in  Benedictine  dress, 
Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless, 
Who,  holding  high  a  blazing  torch, 

Showed  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch: 

Reflecting  hack  the  smoky  beam, 

The  dark  red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 

Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  displayed, 
And  building-tools  in  order  laid. 

These  executioners  were  chose 

As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes, 


-ff 


a- 


686 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


a 


And,  with  despite  and  envy  fired, 
Into  the  cloister  hud  retired  ; 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace, 
Strove,  by  deep  penance,  to  efface 

Of  some  foul  crime  the  stain  ; 
For,  as  the  vassals  of  her  will, 
Such  men  the  Church  selected  still, 
As  either  joyed  in  doing  ill 
Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain, 
If,  in  her  cause,  they  wrestled  down 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own. 
By  strange  device  were  they  brought  there, 
They  knew  not  how,  and  knew  not  where. 

And  now  that  blind  old  Abbot  rose, 
To  speak  the  Chapter's  doom 

On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose 
Alive  within  the  tomb  ; 

But  stopped,  because  that  woful  maid, 

Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essayed. 

Twice  she  essayed,  and  twice  in  vain  ; 

Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain  ; 

Naught  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 

From  her  convulsed  and  quivering  lip. 
'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still, 
You  seemed  to  hear  a  distant  rill,  — 

'T  was  ocean's  swell  and  falls  ; 
For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear 
"Was  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 
A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear, 
So  massive  were  the  walls. 

At  length  an  effort  sent  apart 

The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  color  dawned  upon  her  cheek, 
A  hectic  and  a  fluttered  streak, 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak 

By  autumn's  stormy  sky  ; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length, 
Still  as  she  spoke  she  gathered  strength, 

And  armed  herself  to  bear. 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy 

In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 

"  I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace  ; 
Well  know  I  for  one  minute's  space 

Successless  might  I  sue. 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain  ; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain 
To  cleanse  my  sins  be  penance  vain, 

Vain  are  your  masses  too. 
I  listened  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil  ; 
For  three  long  years  I  bowed  my  pride, 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride  ; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave, 


Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave, 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  gi'ave. 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair, 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir, 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore, 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more. 
'T  is  an  old  tale,  and  often  told  ; 

But,  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 
Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old, 
Of  maiden  true  betrayed  for  gold, 
That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me. 

"  The  King  approved  his  favorite's  aim  ; 
In  vain  a  rival  barred  his  claim, 

Whose  faith  with  Clare's  was  plight, 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge,  —  and  on  they  came, 

In  mortal  lists  to  fight. 
Their  oaths  are  said, 
Their  prayers  are  prayed, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid, 

They  meet  in  mortal  shock  ; 
And,  hark  !  the  throng,  with  thundering  cry, 
Shout  '  Marmion,  Marmion,  to  the  sky  ! 

De  Wilton  to  the  block  ! ' 
Say  ye,  who  preach  Heaven  shall  decide, 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride, 

Say,  was  Heaven's  justice  here, 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear  ? 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell, 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell."  — 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast, 
Paused,  gathered  voice,  and  spoke  the  rest. 

"  Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  stayed  ; 
To  Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid, 

The  hated  match  to  shun. 
'  Ho  !  shifts  she  thus  ? '  King  Henry  cried  ; 
'  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride, 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun.' 
One  way  remained,  —  the  King's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land  ; 
I  lingered  here,  and  rescue  planned 

For  Clara  and  for  me. 
This  caitiff  monk  for  gold  did  swear 
He  would  to  AVhitby's  shrine  repair, 
And,  by  his  drags,  my  rival  fair 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be. 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept,  his  oath, 
Whose  cowardice  hath  undone  us  both. 

"  And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells, 
Not  that  remorse  my  bosom  swells, 
But  to  assure  my  soul  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betra3'ed, 
This  packet,  to  the  King  conveyed, 


&- 


# 


-Pr 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


687 


ft 


Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke.  — 
Now,  men  of  death,  work  forth  your  will, 
For  1  can  suffer,  and  be  still ; 
And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast, 
It  is  but  Death  who  comes  at  last. 

"  Yet  dread  me,  from  my  living  tomb, 

Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Home  ! 

If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake, 

Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take, 

That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 

Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 

Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 

The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends, 

The  ire  of  a  despotic  king 

Hides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing  ; 

Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and  deep, 

Burst  open  to  the  sea-winds'  sweep. 

Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones 

Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones, 

And,  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty, 

Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be." 

Fixed  was  her  look,  and  stern  her  air, 
Back  from  her  shoulders  streamed  her  hair  ; 
The  locks,  that  wont  her  brow  to  shade, 
Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head  ; 
Her  figure  seemed  to  rise  more  high  ; 
Her  voice,  despair's  wild  energy 
Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 
Appalled  the  astonished  conclave  sate  ; 
With  stupid  eyes  the  men  of  fate 
Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form, 
And  listened  fo  '  the  avenging  storm. 
The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread  ; 
No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said, 
Till  thus  the  Abbot's  doom  was  given, 
Raising  his  silcIi tless  balls  to  heaven  :  — 
"  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease  ; 
Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace  !" 

From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom, 
( If  execution  too,  and  tomb, 

Pai  ed  forth  the  judges  three  ; 
Sorrow  it  were,  and  shame,  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befell, 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 
Of  sin  and  misery. 

An  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
Thai  conclave  to  the  upper  day  ; 
But,  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air, 
they  heard  the  shriekings.  of  despair, 
And  many  a  stifled  groan  ; 

With  speed  their  upwaid  way  they  take 

(Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make), 
And  .-rossed  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 
As  hurrying,  tottering  on  ; 


Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone 
They  seemed  to  hear  a  dying  groan, 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
For  welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 
Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung  ; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled, 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told  ; 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said  ; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 
Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind, 
Then  couched  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE   SACK   OF    BALTIMORE. 

[Baltimore  is  a  small  seaport  in  the  barony  of  Carbery,  in  South 
Munster.  It  grew  up  round  a  castle  of  O'Driscoll's,  and  was.  after 
his  ruin,  colonized  by  the  English.  On  the  20th  of  June.  1631,  the 
crew  of  two  Algerine  galleys  landed  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
sacked  the  town,  and  bore  off  into  slavery  all  who  were  not  too  old, 
or  too  young,  or  too  fierce,  for  their  purpose.  The  pirates  were 
steered  up  the  intricate  channel  by  one  Hackett,  a  Dungarvan 
fisherman,  whom  they  had  taken  at  sea  for  the  purpose.  Two 
years  after  he  was  convicted,  and  executed  for  the  crime.  Balti- 
more never  recovered  from  this.] 

The  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carbery's  hun- 
dred isles, 

The  summer's  sun  is  gleaming  still  through  Ga- 
briel's rough  defiles,  — 

Old  Inisherkin's  crumbled  fane  looks  like  a  moult- 
ing bird  ; 

And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean  tide  is 
heard  : 

The  hookers  lie  upon  the  beach  ;  the  children 
cease  their  play  ; 

The  gossips  leave  the  little  inn  ;  the  households 
kneel  to  pray,  — 

And  full  of  love  and  peace  and  rest,  —  its  daily 
labor  o'er,  — 

Upon  that  cosey  creek  there  lay  the  town  of  Hai- 
ti more. 

A  deeper  rest,  a  starry  trance,  has  come  with  mid- 

nighl  there  ; 
No  sound,  except  that  throbbing  wave,  in  earth 

or  sea  or  air. 
The  massive  capes  and  ruined  towers  seem  con- 

scious  of  the  calm  ; 
The  fibrous  soil  and  stunted  trees  are  breathing 

heavy  halm. 
So  still  the  night,  these  two  long  barks  round 

Dunashad  thai  glide 
Must    trust    their  oars  —  methinks  not    few  — 

against  the  ebbing  tide,  — 


4=1- 


# 


G88 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


a 


O,  some  sweet  mission  of  true  love  must  urge 

them  to  the  shore,  — 
They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride,  who  sighs  in 

Baltimore  ! 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that  rocky 

street, 
And  these  must  be  the  lover's  friends,  with  gently 

gliding  feet. 
A  stifled  gasp  !  a  dreamy  noise  !   "The  roof  is  in 

a  flame  ! " 
From  out  their  beds,  and  to  their  doors,  rush 

maid  and  sire  and  dame, 
And  meet,  upon  the  threshold  stone,  the  gleam- 
ing sabre's  fall, 
And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the  white 

or  crimson  shawl  ; 
The  yell  of  "Allah  !"  breaks  above  the  prayer 

and  shriek  and  roar. 
0  blessed  God,  the  Algerine  is  lord  of  Baltimore  ! 

Then  flung  the  youth  his  naked  hand  against  the 

shearing  sword  ; 
Then  sprung  the  mother  on  the  brand  with  which 

her  son  was  gored  ; 
Then  sunk  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his  grand- 
babes  clutching  wild  ; 
Then  fled  the  maiden  moaning  faint,  and  nestled 

with  the  child. 
But  see,  yon  pirate  strangling  lies,  and  crushed 

witli  splashing  heel, 
While  o'er  him  in  an  Irish  hand  there  sweeps  his 

Syrian  steel ; 
Though  virtue  sink,  and  courage  fail,  and  misers 

yield  their  store, 
There  's  one  hearth  well  avenged  in  the  sack  of 

Baltimore  ! 

Midsummer  morn,  in  woodland  nigh,  the  birds 
begin  to  sing  ; 

They  see  not  now  the  milking-maids,  deserted  is 
the  spring  ! 

Midsummer  day,  this  gallant  rides  from  distant 
Bandon's  town, 

These  hookers  crossed  from  stormy  Skull,  that 
skiff  from  Affadown. 

They  only  found  the  smoking  walls  with  neigh- 
bors' blood  besprent, 

And  on  the  strewed  and  trampled  beach  awhile 
they  wildly  went, 

Then  dashed  to  sea,  and  passed  Cape  Clear,  and 
saw,  five  leagues  before, 

The  pirate-galleys  vanishing  that  ravaged  Balti- 
more. 

0,  some  must  tug  the  galley's  oar,  and  some  must 

tend  the  steed,  — 
This  boy  will  bear  a  Scheik's  chibouk,  and  that 

a  Bey's  jerreed. 


0,  some  are  for  the  arsenals  by  beauteous  Dar- 
danelles, 

And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  Mecca's  sandy  dells. 

The  maid  that  Bandon  gallant  sought  is  chosen 
for  the  Dey,  — 

She  's  safe,  —  she 's  dead,  —  she  stabbed  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  Serai  ; 

And  when  to  die  a  death  of  fire  that  noble  maid 
they  bore, 

She  only  smiled,  —  O'Driscoll's  child,  —  she 
thought  of  Baltimore. 

'T  is  two  long  years  since  sunk  the  town  beneath 
that  bloody  band, 

And  all  around  its  trampled  hearths  a  larger  con- 
course stand, 

Where  high  upon  a  gallows-tree  a  yelling  wretch 
is  seen,  — 

'T  is  Hackett  of  Dungarvan,  —  he  who  steered 
the  Algerine  ! 

He  fell  amid  a  sullen  shout,  with  scarce  a  passing 
prayer, 

For  he  had  slain  the  kith  and  kin  of  many  a  hun- 
dred there  : 

Some  muttered  of  MacMorrogh,  who  had  brought 
the  Norman  o'er, 

Some  cursed  him  with  Iscariot,  that  day  in  Balti- 
more. THOMAS  DAVIS. 


GOD'S  JUDGMENT  ON   HATTO. 

[Hatto,  Archbishop  of  Mentz,  in  the  year  914  barbarously  mur- 
dered a  number  of  poor  people  to  prevent  their  consuming  a  por- 
tion of  the  food  during  that  year  of  famine.  He  was  afterwards 
devoured  by  rats  in  his  tower  on  an  island  in  the  Rhine.  — 
Old  Legend.] 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet, 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet. 
'T  was  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 

Every  day  the  starving  poor 
They  crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door ; 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last-year's  store, 
And  all  the  neighborhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnished  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  day 
To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay  ; 
He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair, 
And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter  there- 
Rejoiced  the  tidings  good  to  hear, 
The  poor  folks  flocked  from  far  and  near ; 
The  great  barn  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and  old. 

Then,  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more, 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door ; 


S 


-EP 


0 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


G89 


And  whilst  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn,  and  burnt  them  all. 

"  F  faith  't  is  an  excellent  bonfire  !  "  quoth  he ; 
"  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me 
For  ridding  it,  in  these  times  forlorn, 
Of  rats  that  only  consume  the  corn." 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sate  down  to  supper  merrily, 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent  man ; 

But 'Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  entered  the  hall, 
"Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 
A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 
For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  out  of  the  frame. 

As  he  looked,  there  came  a  man  from  his  farm,  — 
He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm  : 
"My  lord,  I  opened  your  granaries  this  morn, 
And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently, 

And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be. 

"  Fly  !  my  lord  bishop,  fly  !  "  quoth  he, 

"  Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this  way,  — 

The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  !  " 

"  I  '11  go  to  my  tower  in  the  Rhine,"  replied  he ; 
"  'T  is  the  safest  place  in  Germany,  — 
The  walls  are  high,  and  the  shores  a:  e  steep, 
And  the  tide  is  strong,  and  the  water  deep." 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfully  hastened  away; 
And  he  crossed  the  Rhine  without  delay, 
And  reached  his  tower  in  the  island,  and  barred 
All  the  gates  secure  and  hard. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes, 

But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise  ; 

He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 

On  his  pillow,  from  whence  the  screaming  came. 

He  listened  and  looked,  —  it  was  only  the  cat  ; 
Hut  tin-  bishop  lie  grew  more  fearful  for  that, 
Em-  sin-  sate  screaming,  mail  with  feaT 
At  the  army  of  rats  that  were  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so  deep, 
Ami  they  have  climbed  the  shores  so  steep, 
Ami  now  by  thousands  up  they  crawl 

To  the  holes  and  the  windows  in  the  wall. 

Down  on  his  knees  tin-  bishop  fell, 

And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  tell, 

A>  louder  and  Louder,  drawing  near, 

The  saw  of  their  teeth  without  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door. 
Ami  through  the  walls,  by  thousands  they  pour; 


And  down  from  the  ceiling  and  up  through  the 

floor, 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and  before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above  and  below,  — 
And  all  at  once  to  the  bishop  they  go. 

They  have  whetted  their  teeth  against  the  stones, 
And  now  they  pick  the  bishop's  bones  ; 
They  gnawed  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him  ! 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


PARRHASIUS. 

Parrhasitjs  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 
Upon  the  canvas.     There  Prometheus  lay, 
Chained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus, 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 
Of  the  lame  Lemnian  festering  in  his  flesh  ; 
And,  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim 
Rapt  mystery,  and  plucked  the  shadows  forth 
With  its  far-reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 
And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye 
Flashed  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curl 
Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip, 
Were  like  the  winged  god's  breathing  from  his 
flights. 

"  Bring  me  the  captive  now  ! 
My  hand  feels  skilful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift  ; 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens,  —  around  me  play 
Colors  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

"  Ha  !  bind  him  on  his  back  ! 
Look  !  as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here  ; 
Quick,  —  or  he  faints  !  —  stand  with  the  cordial 
near  ! 

Now,  —  bend  him  to  the  rack  ! 
Press  down  the  poisoned  links  into  his  flesh  ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh  ! 

"  So,  —  let  him  writhe  !  How  long 
Will  he  live  thus  !  Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now  ! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow  ! 

Ha  '  gray-haiivd,  and  so  strong! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan  ! 
Gods  !  could  I  but  paint  a  dying  groan  ! 

"Pity  thee  !  so  I  do  ! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar, 
Bu1  docs  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter? 

I  'd  rack  thee,  though  1  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine  ; 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine  r 


•a 


r& 


(590 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


-a 


"  Ah  !  there  's  a  deathless  name  !  — 
A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vaults  shall  spurn, 
And,  like  a  steadfast  planet,  mount  and  burn  ; 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars,  I  'd  bind  it  on  ! 

"Ay  !  though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst,  — 
Though   every  life-strung  nerve   be  maddened 
first,  — 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearnings  in  my  heart  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild,  — 

"  All,  —  I  would  do  it  all,  — 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot 
Thrust  foully  in  the  earth  to  be  forgot. 

O  Heavens  !  — but  I  appall 
Your  heart,  old  man  !  —  forgive  —  ha  !  on  your 

lives 
Let  him  not  faint  !  rack  him  till  he  revives  ! 

"  Vain,  —  vain,  —  give  o'er.     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now,  — 
Stand  back  !  I'll  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow  ! 

Gods  !  if  he  do  not  die, 
But  for  one  moment  —  one  —  till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  ! 

"  Shivering  !     Hark  !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now,  —  that  was  a  difficult  breath,  — 
Another  ?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  0  Death  ? 

Look  !  how  his  temple  flutters  ! 
Is  his  heart  still  ?     Aha. !  lift  up  his  head  ! 
He  shudders, —  gasps, —  Jove  help  him  !  —  so, — 
he  's  dead  !  " 

How  like  a  mountain  devil  in  the  heart 
Rules  the  inreined  ambition  !     Let  it  once 
But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haughty  brow 
Glows  with  a  beauty  that  bewilders  thought 
And  unthrones  peace  forever.     Putting  on 
The  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns 
The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 
Lift  in  the  desert  for  the  spirit's  lip, 
We  look  upon  our  splendor,  and  forget 
The  thirst  of  which  we  perish  ! 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  "MACBETH." 

THE  PARLEY. 

f 

Macbeth.      If  it  were  done,  when  't  is  done, 
then  't  were  will 
It  were  done  quickly  :  if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consetpience,  and  catch, 


With  his  surcease,  success  ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here. 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time,  — 
We  'd  jump  the  life  to  come.    But  in  these  cases, 
We  still  have  judgment  here  ;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor  :  this  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poisoned  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.     He  's  here  in  double  trust  : 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject, 
Strong  both  against  the  deed  ;  then,  as  his  host, 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Dun- 
can 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off ; 
And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe, 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubin,  horsed 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.    I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself, 
And  falls  on  the  other. 

We  will  proceed  no  farther  in  this  business  : 
He  hath  honored  me  of  late  ;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  Macbeth.         Was  the  hope  drunk, 
Wherein  you  dressed  yourself  ?  hath  it  slept  since  ? 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?     From  this  time, 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valor, 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Wouldst  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem, 
Letting  "  I  dare  not "  wait  upon  "  I  would," 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  ? 

Macb.  Pr'ythee,  peace  : 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man  ; 
Who  dares  do  more  is  none. 

Lady  M.  What  beast  was  *t,  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man  ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.    Nor  time,  nor  place, 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both  •. 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fit- 
ness now 
Does  unmake  you.    I  have  given  suck,andknow 
How  tender  't  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me : 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  plucked  my  nipple  from  his  bonelessgums, 


■ff 


a 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


— R- 


091 


And  dashed  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn  as  you 
Have  done  to  this. 

Macb.  If  we  should  fail  ? 

Lady  M.  We  fail ! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking-place, 
And  we  '11  not  fail. 

Macb.  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 

THE    MURDER. 

Macbeth.     Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before 

me, 
The  handle  toward  my  hand?  Come,  let  me  clutch 

thee  :  — 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshall'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going  ; 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest  :  I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade,  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood, 
Which  was  not  so  before.  —  There 's  no  such  thing : 
It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes.  —  Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtained  sleep  ;  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings  ;  and  withered  murder, 
Alarumed  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 
Whose  howl 's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy 

pace, 
With  Tarquin's   ravishing  strides,  towards  his 

design 
Moveslikeaghost.  — Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for 

fear 
The  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 
Whicli  now  suits  with  it.  — Whiles  I  threat,  he 

lives  : 
Words  to  1 1n- heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

[A  bell  rings. 

I  s  and  it  i  the  bell  invites  me. 

I I  n  it  not,  Duncan  ;  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell. 

I  have  done  the  deed.  —  Didst  thou  not  hear  a 

noi 
Lady  Macbeth.  I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and 
the  cricl  e1 9  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  f 
Macb.  When  ? 


As  I  descended  ? 


Lady  M.  Now. 

Macb. 

Lady  M.  Ay. 

Macb.   Hark  !  — 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  M.  Donalbain. 

Macb.  [Looking  on  his  hands. ]    This  is  a  sorry 
sight. 

Lady  M.  A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macb.  There 's  one  did  laugh  in  's  sleep,  and 
one  cried,  "murder  !  " 
That  they  did  wake  each  other  :  I  stood  and  heard 

them  : 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  addressed 

them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  M.  There  are  two  lodged  together. 

Macb.  One   cried,    "God   bless   us!"    and, 
"Amen,"  the  other ; 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands. 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say,  "  Amen," 
When  they  did  say,  "  God  bless  us." 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.   But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce 
"Amen"  ? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  u  Amen  " 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.       These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways  ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macb.   Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry  "Sleep 
no  more  ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep, "  —  the  innocent  sleep, 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravelled  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
<  !hief  nourisher  in  life's  feast,  — 

Lady  M.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.  Still  it  cried,  "  Sleep  no  more  !  "  to  all 
the  house  : 
"Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep;  and   therefore 

Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more, — Macbeth  shall  sleep  no 
more  ! " 

Lady  M.  Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  !    Why, 
worthy  thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brain  ieklv  of  things.  — Go,  gel  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand.  — 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 
They  must  lie  there  :  go  carry  them  ;  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Mail.  I  '11  go  no  more  ! 

1  am  afraid  t<>  think  what  I  have  done  ; 
Look  on  't  again,  1  dare  not. 

Lad^  M.  Infirm  of  purpose  I 
Give  me  the  daggers  :  the  sleeping,  ami  tie'!  ad, 
Are  hut  as  pictures  :  'tis  the  eye  of  childh 1 

That   fears  a   painted  devil.       If  lie  do  bleed, 


'J- 


G92 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


&- 


I  '11  gikl  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal ; 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt. 

[Exit.     Knocking  heard. 
MACB.   "Whence  is  that  knocking  ? 
How  is 't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appalls  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here  !    Ha  !  they  pluck  out  mine 

eyes  ! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand  ?     No  ;  this  my  hand  will 

rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnardine, 
Making  the  green  - —  one  red. 

He-enter  Lady  Macbeth. 
Lady  M.  My  hands  are  of  your  color  ;  but  I 

shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.     [Knocking.]     I  hear  a 

knocking 
At  the  south  entry  :  —  retire  we  to  our  chamber  : 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed  : 
How  easy  is  it,  then  ! 

THE  REMORSE. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Naught  's  had,  all 's  spent, 
Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
'T  is  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy, 
Than,  by  destruction,  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 

Enter  Macbeth. 
How,  now,  my  lord  ?  why  do  you  keep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making  ; 
Using  those  thoughts,  which  should  indeed  have 

died 
With   them    they   think   on  ?     Things  without 

remedy, 
Should  be  without  regard  :  what 's  done,  is  done. 

Macb.  We  have  scotched  the  snake,  not  killed  it : 
She  '11  close,  andbeherself  ;  whilst  ourpoor  malice 
Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 
But  let  the  frame  of  things  disjoint, 
Both  the  worlds  suffer, 
Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep 
In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams, 
That  shake  us  nightly  :  better  be  with  the  dead, 
Whom  we,  to  gain  our  peace,  have  sent  to  peace, 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 
In  restless  ecstasy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave  ; 
After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well  ; 

-on  has  done  his  worst  :  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 
Can  touch  him  farther  ! 

Lady  .M.  Come  on  ; 

Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks  ; 
Be  1  night  and  jovial  among  your  guests  to-night. 

Macb.   So  shall  I,  love  ;  and  so,  I  pray,  be  you  : 
Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo  ; 
Present  him  eminence,  both  with  eye  and  tongue ; 
Unsafe  the  while,  that  we 
Must  lave  our  honors  in  these  flattering  streams  ; 


And  make  our  faces  vizards  to  our  hearts, 
Disguising  what  they  are. 

Come,  seeling  night, 
Scarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day  ; 
And  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand 
Cancel,  and  tear  to  pieces,  that  great  bond 
Which  keeps  me  pale  ! — Light  thickens  ;  and 

the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood  : 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse  ; 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  prey  do  rouse. 

Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now,  i'  the  olden  time, 
Ere  human  statute  purged  the  gentle  weal ; 
Ay,  and  since  too,  murders  have  been  performed 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear  :  the  times  have  been, 
That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end  ;  but  now,  they  rise  again, 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns, 
And  push  us  from  our  stools  :  this  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a  murder  is. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Can  such  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder  ?  You  make  me  strange 
Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe, 
When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights, 
And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks, 
When  mine  are  blanched  with  fear. 

Seyton  !  —  I  am  sick  at  heart, 
When  I  behold  —  Seyton,  I  say  !  —  This  push 
Will  cheer  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 
I  have  lived  long  enough  :  my  way  of  life 
Is  fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf  ; 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have  ;  but,  in  their  stead, 
Curses,  not  loud,  but  deep,  mouth-honor,  breath, 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  but  dare  no  t. 

How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Doctor.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Macb.  Cure  her  of  that 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow  ; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain  ; 
And,  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  stuffed  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff, 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

Doct.  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Macb.  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,  —  I  '11  none 
of  it. 


^a- 


w 


err- 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


693 


"ft 


What  is  that  noise  ?       [A  cry  within  of  women. 

Seyton.   It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears  : 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cooled 
To  hear  a  night-shriek  :  and  my  fell  of  hair 
"Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse,  and  stir, 
As  life  were  in 't :  I  have  supped  full  with  horrors ; 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaughterous  thoughts, 
Cannot  once  start  me.  — Wherefore  was  that  cry  ? 

Sey.  The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 

Macb.  She  should  have  died  hereafter  ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word.  — 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time  ; 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle  ! 
Life 's  but  a  walking  shadow  ;  a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing.  Shakespeare. 


LUCIUS    JUNIUS    BRUTUS'S   ORATION 
OVER  THE  BODY  OF  LUCRETIA. 

Would   you   know  why  I  summoned  you  to- 
gether ? 
Ask  ye  what  livings  me  here  ?  Behold  this  dagger, 
Clotted  with  gore  !     Behold  that  frozen  corse  ! 
See  where  the  lost  Lucretia  sleeps  in  death  ! 
She  was  the  mark  and  model  of  the  time, 
The  mould  in  which  each  female  face  was  formed, 
The  very  shrine  and  sacristy  of  virtue  ! 
Fairer  than  ever  was  a  form  created 
By  youthful  fancy  when  the  blood  strays  wild, 
And  never-resting  thought  is  all  on  fire  ! 
The  worthiest  of  the  worthy  !     Not  the  nymph 
Who  met  old  Numa  in  his  hallowed  walks, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear  her  strains  divine, 
Can  !  conceive  beyond  her;  —  the  young  choir 
Of  vestal  virgins  bent  to  her.     'Tis  wonderful 
Amid  the  darnel,  hemlock,  and  base  weeds, 
Which  now  spring  rife  from  the  luxurious  com- 
post 
Spread  o'er  the  realm,  how  this  sweet  lily  rose, — 
How    from   the   shade  of  those    ill-neighboring 
plants 

Iler  father  sheltered  her,  thai  not  a  leaf 
Was  blighted,  but,  arrayed  in  purest  grace, 
She  bloomed  unsullied  beauty.    Such  perfections 
Might  have  called  back  the  torpid  breast  <>f  age 
To  Long-forgotten  rapture  ;  such  a  mind 
Might  have  abashed  the  boldest  libertine 
And  turned  desire  to  reverential  love 
And  holiest  affection  !     <»  my  countrymen  ! 


You  all  can  witness  when  that  she  went  forth 
1 1  was  a  holiday  in  Rome ;  old  age 
Forgot  its  crutch,  labor  its  task,  —  all  ran, 
And  mothers,  turning  to  their  daughters,  cried, 
"  There,  there  's  Lucretia  !  "    Now  look  ye  where 

she  lies  ! 
That  beauteous  flower,  that  innocent  sweet  rose, 
Torn  up  by  ruthless  violence,  — gone  !  gone  !  gone  ! 

Say,  would  you  seek  instruction  ?  would  ye  ask 
What  ye  should  do  ?    Ask  ye  yon  conscious  walls, 
Which  saw  his  poisoned  brother,  — 
Ask  yon  deserted  street,  where  Tullia  drove 
O'er  her  dead  father's  corse,  'twill  cry,  Revenge  ! 
Ask  yonder  senate-house,  whose  stones  are  purple 
With  human  blood,  and  it  will  cry,  Revenge  ! 
Go  to  the  tomb  where  lies  his  murdered  wife, 
And  the  poor  queen,  who  loved  him  as  her  sun, 
Their  unappeased  ghosts  will  shriek,  Revenge  ! 
The  temples  of  the  gods,  the  all-viewing  heavens, 
The  gods  themselves,  shall  justify  the  cry, 
And  swell  the  general  sound,  Revenge  !  Revenge  ! 

And  we  will  be  revenged,  my  countrymen  ! 
Brutus  shall  lead  you  on  ;  Brutus,  a  name 
Which  will,  when  you  're  revenged,  be  dearer  to 

him 
Than  all  the  noblest  titles  earth  can  boast. 

Brutus  your  king  !  —  No,  fellow-citizens  ! 
If  mad  ambition  in  this  guilty  frame 
Had  strung  one  kingly  fibre,  yea,  but  one,  — 
By  all  the  gods,  this  dagger  which  I  hold 
Should  rip  it  out,  though  it  intwined  my  heart. 

Now  take  the  body  up.     Bear  it  before  us 
To  Tarquin's  palace  ;  therewe  '11  light  our  torches, 
And  in  the  blazing  conflagration  rear 
A  pile,  for  these  chaste  relics,  that  shall  send 
Her  soul  amongst  the  stars.     On  !  Brutus  leads 

you  •  John  Howard  Payne. 


ANTONY'S   ORATION   OVER   THE   BODY 
OF   CESAR. 

FROM    "  JULIUS   C*SAR." 

Antony.  OmightyCsesar !  dost  thou  lie  so  low? 
Are  all  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils, 
Shrunk  to  this  little  measure  ? — Fare  thee  well. — 


TO  THE  CONSPIRATORS. 

I  doubt  not  of  your  wisdom. 
Let  each  man  render  me  bis  bloody  hand  : 
First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  with  you  ;  — 
Next,  Caius  CaSbius,  do  I  take  your  hand  : 

Now,  I  teems  r.rutus,  yours;— now  yours,  Metellusj 
Yours,  <  'inna  :       and,  my  valiant  <  !asca,  \  0U1 
Though  last,  not  least  in  love,  yours,  good  Tre- 

I- mills. 


lft- 


--B1 


J3- 


694 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


-a 


ft 


Gentlemen  all,  —  alas  !  what  shall  I  say  ? 

My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground, 

That  one  of  two  bad  ways  you  must  conceit  me, 

Either  a  coward  or  a  flatterer.  — 

That  I  did  love  thee,  Caesar,  0,  't  is  true : 

If,  then,  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now, 

Shall  it  not  grieve  thee  dearer  than  thy  death, 

To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace, 

Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes, 

Most  noble  !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse  ? 

Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds, 

Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood, 

It  would  become  me  better,  than  to  close 

In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 

Pardon  me,  Julius  !  —  Here  wast  thou  bayed,  brave 

hart  ; 
Here  didst  thou  fall  ;  and  here  thy  hunters  stand, 
Signed  in  thy  spoil,  and  crimsoned  in  thy  lethe. 
0  world,  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart  ; 
And  this,  indeed,  0  world,  the  heart  of  thee.  — 
How  like  a  deer,  stricken  by  many  princes, 
Dost  thou  here  lie  ? 


TO  THE  PEOPLE. 

Friends,  Romans,   countrymen,  lend  me  your 
ears  ; 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them  ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones  ; 
So  let  it  be  with  Csesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you  Csesar  was  ambitious  : 
If  it  was  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault  ; 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest, 
(For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man  ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men,) 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me  : 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious  ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Coesar  seem  ambitious  ? 
When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept  : 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff: 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious  ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal 
I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 
WEi  h  h'-  did  thrice  refuse  :  was  this  ambition  ? 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious  ; 
And,  sure,  he  is  an  honorable  man. 
I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 
But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 
You  all  did  love  him  once,  —  not  without  cause  : 
What  cause  withholds  you,  then,  tomournforhim  ? 


0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason  !  —  Bearwithme; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Caesar  might 
Have  stood  against  the  world  :  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters  !  if  1  were  disposed  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honorable  men  : 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong  ;  I  rather  choose 
To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you, 
Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 
But  here's  a  parchment,  with  the  seal  of  Caesar,  — 
I  found  it  in  his  closet,  —  't  is  his  will  : 
Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, 
(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read,) 
And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds, 
And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood  ; 
Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 
And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 
Bequeathing  it,  as  a  rich  legacy, 
Unto  their  issue. 

4  Citizen.  We  '11  hear  the  will  :  read  it,  Mark 
Antony. 

Citizens.   The   will,  the  will  !   we  will  hear 
Caesar's  will. 

Ant.  Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must  not 
read  it ; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  loved  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men  ; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad  : 
i'T  is  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs, 
For  if  you  should,  0,  what  would  come  of  it  ! 

4  Cit.   Read  the  will ;  we  '11  hear  it,  Antony  ; 
You  shall  read  us  the  will,  —  Caesar's  will. 

Ant.  Will  you  be  patient  ?    Will  you  stay  a 
while  ? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabbed  Caesar  ;  I  do  fear  it. 

4  Cit.  They  were  traitors  :  honorable  men  ! 

Cit.  The  will  !  the  testament  ! 

2  Cit.  They  were  villains,  murderers  :  the  will ! 
read  the  will  ! 

Ant.  You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the 
will  ? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend  ?  and  will  you  give  me  leave  ? 

Citizens.  Come  down. 

Ant.   Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me ;  stand  far  off. 

Citizens.  Stand  back  ;  room  ;  bear  back. 

Ant.   If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  tliem 
now. 


-# 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


095 


■a 


You  all  do  know  this  mantle  :  I  remember 

The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on  ; 

'T  was  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent ; 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii  :  — 

Look,  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through  : 

See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made  : 

Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed ; 

And,  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  it, 

As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolved 

If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knocked,  or  no  ; 

For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel: 

Judge,    0   you  gods,   how   dearly  Caesar   loved 

him  ! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 
For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 
Quite  vanquished  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty 

heart  ; 
And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 
Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statua, 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 
0,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 
"Whilst  bloody  treason  flourished  over  us. 
0,  now  you  weep  ;  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity  :  these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 
Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here, 
Here  is  himself,  marred,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir 

you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable  ;  — 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas,  I  know  not, 
That  made   them   do  it;  —  they  are   wise   and 

honorable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts  ; 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is  ; 
But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man, 
That  love  my  friend  ;  and  that  they  know  full 

well 

That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him  : 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 

To  stir  men's  hi 1  :  I  only  speak  right  on  ; 

1  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know  ; 
Show  you  sweel  Cae  ar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb 

mouths, 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me  :  but  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  pul  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Cffisar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 

■  ■  •  •  • 

Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal :  — 


To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 

To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

2  Cit.   Most  noble  Ccesar  !  —  we  '11  revenge  his 

death. 

3  Cit.  0  royal  Caesar  ! 

Ant.  Hear  me  with  patience. 

Citizens.   Peace,  ho  ! 

Ant.   Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbors,  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber  ;  he  hath  left  them  you, 
And  to  your  heirs  forever,  —  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar  !  when  comes  such  another  ? 

1  Cit.   Never,  never  !  —  Come  away,  away  ! 
We  '11  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 
And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body.  Shakespeare. 


BEATRICE   CENCI. 


FROM        THE   CENCI.' 


Beatrice.  0, 

My  God  !  can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly  ?  So  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy  ground  ! 
To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place  ; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine  ;  hear  no  more 
Blithe  voice  of  living  thing  ;  muse  not  again 
Upon  familiar  thoughts,  sad,  yet  thus  lost,  — 
How  fearful  ! 

Lttcretia.  Child,  perhaps 

It  will  be  granted.     We  may  all  then  live 
To  make  these  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years  ; 
0,  what  a  thought  !     It  gushes  to  my  heart 
Like  the  warm  blood. 

Beatr.  Yet  both  will  soon  be  cold. 

0,  tram]  >le  out  that  thought !  Worse  than  despair. 
Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope  ; 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place 
Upon  the  giddy,  sharp,  and  narrow  hour 
Tottering  beneath  us.  Plead  with  the  swift  frost 
That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of  spring  ; 
Flead  with   awakening  earthquake,  o'er  whose 

couch 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  fair,  strong,  and  \'n  e  . 
Now  stench  and  blackness  yawns,   like  death. 

< 1,  plead 
With  famine,  or  wind-walking  pestilence, 
Blind  lightning,  or  the  deaf  sea,  not  with  man  I 
CrueL  cold,  formal  man  !  righteous  in  words, 
In  deed    a  Cain.     No,  mother,  we  must  die, 
Since  such  is  the  reward  of  innocent  lives, 
Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 
And  whilst  ourmurdererslive,  andhard,  cold  men, 
Smiling  and  bIow,  walk  through  a  world  of  tears 
To  death  as  to  life's  sleep,  't  were  just  the  grava 


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6% 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY. 


^ 


Come,  obscure 


"Were  some  strange  joy  for  us. 

Death, 
And  wind  me  in  thine  all-embracing  arms  ! 
Like  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  bosom, 
And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which  none  wake. 

PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 

♦— 


OTHELLO'S   DESPAIR. 

FROM    "OTHELLO,    THE    MOOR   OF   VENICE." 

THE  LAMENTATION. 
0,  now,  forever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind  !  farewell  content ! 
Farewell  the  plumed  troop,  and  the  big  wars, 
That  make  ambition  virtue  !     0,  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife, 
The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war  ! 
And,  0  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
The  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamors  counterfeit, 
Farewell !    Othello's  occupation  's  gone  ! 
•  •  • 

Had  it  pleased  Heaven 
To  try  me  with  affliction  ;  had  he  rained 
All  kinds  of  sores,  and  shames,  on  my  bare  head  ; 
Steeped  me  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips  ; 
Given  to  captivity  me  and  my  utmost  hopes  ; 
I  should  have  found  in  some  part  of  my  soul 
A  drop  of  patience  :  but,  alas,  to  make  me 
A  fixed  figure,  for  the  time  of  scorn 
To  point  his  slow  unmoving  finger  at  !  — 
Yet  could  I  bear  that  too  ;  well,  very  well  : 
But  there.,  where  I  have  garnered  up  my  heart,  — 
"Where  either  I  must  live,  or  bear  no  life, 
The  fountain  from  the  which  my  current  runs, 
Or  else  dries  up  ;  to  be  discarded  thence  ! 

THE   MURDER. 


It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul,  — 

Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars  !  — 

It  is  the  cause.  — Yet  I  '11  not  shed  her  blood  ; 

Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 

And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster. 

Yet  she  must  die,  else  she  '11  betray  more  men. 

Put  out  the  light,  and  then  —   Put  out  the  light  ! 

If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 

I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore, 

Should  I  repent  me  :  —  but  once  put  out  thy  light, 

Thou  cunning'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 

1  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat, 

That  can  thy  light  relume.  When  I  have  plucked 

thy  rose, 
I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again, 
It  needs  must  wither : — I'll  smell  it  on  the  tree.  — 

[Kissing  her. 


0  balmy  breath,  that  dost  almost  persuade 
Justice  to  break  her   sword  !  —  One  more,  one 

more :  — 
Be  thus  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill  thee, 
And  love  thee  after :  — one  more,  and  this  the  last; 
So  sweet  was  ne'er  so  fatal.     1  must  weep, 
But  they  are  cruel  tears  :  this  sorrow 's  heavenly  > 
It  strikes,  where  it  doth  love. 

THE  REMORSE. 

Behold,  I  have  a  weapon  ; 
A  better  never  did  itself  sustain 
Upon  a  soldier's  thigh  :  1  have  seen  the  day, 
That,  with  this  little  arm  and  this  good  sword, 
I  have  made  my  way  through  more  impediments 
Than  twenty  times  your  stop :  —but,  0  vain  boast ! 
Who  can  control  his  fate  ?  't  is  not  so  now.  — 
Be  not  afraid,  though  you  do  see  me  weaponed  ; 
Here  is  my  journey's  end,  here  is  my  butt, 
And  very  sea-mark  of  my  utmost  sail. 
Do  you  go  back  dismayed  ?  't  is  a  lost  fear  ; 
Man  but  a  rush  against  Othello's  breast, 
And  he  retires  :  —  where  should  Othello  go  ?  — 
Now,  how  dost  thou  look  now  ?  0  ill-starred  wench! 
Pale  as  thy  smock  !  when  we  shall  meet  at  compt, 
This  look  of  thine  will  hurl  my  soul  from  heaven, 
And  fiends  will  snatch  at  it.  Cold,  cold,  my  girl  ? 
Even  like  thy  chastity.  — 
0  cursed,  cursed  slave  !  —  Whip  me,  ye  devils, 
From  the  possession  of  this  heavenly  sight  ! 
Blow  me  about  in  winds  !  roast  me  in  sulphur  ! 
Wash  me  in  steep-down  gulfs  of  liquid  fire  !  — 

0  Desdemona !  Desdemona !  dead!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh! 

THE  SUICIDE. 

Soft  you  ;  a  word  or  two,  before  you  go. 

1  have  done  the  state  some  service,  and  they  know 

it;  — 

No  more  of  that.  —  T  pray  you,  in  your  letters, 
When  you  shall  these  unlucky  deeds  relate, 
Speak  of  me  as  I  am  ;  nothing  extenuate, 
Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice  :  then,  must  you 

speak 
Of  one  that  loved,  not  wisely,  but  too  well  ; 
Of  one  not  easily  jealous,  but.  being  wrought, 
Perplexed  in  the  extreme  ;  of  one,  whose  hand, 
Like  the  base  Indian,  threw  a  pearl  away, 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe  ;  of  one,  whose  subdued 

eyes, 
Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood, 
Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 
Their  medicinal  gum.     Set  you  down  this  ; 
And  say,  besides,  — that  in  Aleppo  once, 
Where  a  malignant  and  a  turbaned  Turk 
Beat  a  Venetian,  and  traduced  the  state, 
I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised  dog, 
And  smote  him  —  thus.  [Stabs  himself. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


•6- 


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POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


ft 


697 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

'T  was  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 
And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school ; 
There  were  some  that  ran,  and  some  that  leapt 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds 

And  souls  untouched  by  sin  ; 
To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in  : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran, 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth 

As  only  boyhood  can  ; 
But  the  usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man  ! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 
To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze  ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease  ; 

So  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees. 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turned  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside,  — 
For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 

In  the  golden  eventide  ; 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome  ; 

With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strained  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fixed  the  brazen  hasp  • 
"  0  God  !  could  1  so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp  ! " 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 

Some  moody  turns  he  took,  — 
Now  up  the  mend,  then  down  the  mead, 

And  past  a  shady  nook,  — 
And,  lo  !  he  saw  a  little  boy 

That  pored  upon  a  book. 

"  My  gentle  lad,  what  is  't  you  read,  — 

Romance  or  fairy  Fable  ? 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable  ?" 
Tin-  young  boy  Rave  an  upward  glance,  — 

"It  is  'The  Death  of  Abel.'" 

Tli"  usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain, — 
Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 

Then  Blowly  bark  again  ; 
Ami  down  he  Bat  beside  the  lad, 

And  talked  with  him  of  Cain  ; 


And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 

Whose  deeds  tradition  saves  ; 
And  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves  ; 
And  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn ; 

And  murders  done  in  caves  ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 

Shriek  upward  from  the  sod  ; 
Ay,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 

To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 
And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 

Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God. 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth 

Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain,  — 
With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain  ; 
For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain  ! 

"And  well,"  quoth  he,  "I  know  for  truth 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme  — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe  !  — 
Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream. 

For  why  ?    Methought,  last  night  I  wrought 
A  murder,  in  a  dream  ! 

"  One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong,  — 

A  feeble  man  and  old  ; 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field,  — 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold  : 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold  ! 

"Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick, 

And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 
One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife,  — 

And  then  the  deed  was  done  : 
There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  feet 

But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone  ! 

"Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill  ; 
And  yet  I  feared  him  all  the  more 

For  lying  there  so  still  : 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look 

That  murder  could  not  kill  ! 

"And,  lo  !   the  universal  air 
Seemed  lit  with  ghastly  flame, — 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
"Wire  looking  down  in  blame  ; 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  his  hand, 
And  called  upon  his  name. 

"0  Cod  !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 

Such  sense  within  the  slain  ; 
But,  when  I  touched  the  lifeless  clay, 

The  blood  gushed  out  amain  ! 
For  every  clot  a  burning  spot 

Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 


<J& 


.698 


POEMS   OF   TRAGEDY. 


"  My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice  ; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  Devil's  price. 
A  dozen  times  I  groaned,  — the  dead 

Had  never  groaned  but  twice. 

"And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
From  the  heaven's  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice,  —  the  awful  voice 
Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite  : 

'  Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dead, 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight ! ' 

"And  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream,  — 
The  sluggish  water  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme  : 
My  gentle  boy,  remember,  this 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream  ! 

"  Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow  plunge, 

And  vanished  in  the  pool ; 
Anon  I  cleansed  my  bloody  hands, 

And  washed  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  urchins  young, 

That  evening,  in  the  school. 

' '  0  Heaven  !  to  think  of  their  Avhite  souls, 

And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 
I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 

Nor  join  in  evening  hymn  ; 
Like  a  devil  of  the  pit  I  seemed, 

'Mid  holy  cherubim  ! 

"  And  Peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 

And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 
But  Guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain, 

That  lighted  me  to  bed, 
And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round 

With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep  ; 
My  fevered  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep  ; 
For  Sin  had  rendered  unto  her 

The  keys  of  hell  to  keep  ! 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

Fru in  weary  chime  to  chime  ; 
With  one  besetting  horrid  hint 

That  racked  me  all  the  time,  — 
A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 

Fierce  impulse  unto  crime,  — 

"  One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 

All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ! 
Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 

Did  that  temptation  crave,  — 
Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 

The  dead  man  in  his  grave  ! 


' '  Heavily  I  rose  up,  as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky, 
And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild,  misgiving  eye  ; 
And  I  saw  the  dead  in  the  river-bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry. 

"Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 

The  dew-drop  from  its  wing  ; 
But  I  never  marked  its  morning  flight, 

I  never  heard  it  sing, 
For  I  was  stooping  once  again 

Under  the  horrid  thing. 

' '  With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 

I  took  him  up  and  ran  ; 
There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began,  — 
In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I  hid  the  murdered  man  ! 

"And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 
But  my  thought  was  otherwhere ; 

As  soon  as  the  midday  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there,  — 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

"Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 
For  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 

That  earth  refused  to  keep,  — 
Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 

"So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones  ! 
Ay,  though  he  's  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh,  — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones  ! 

"0  God  !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Again  —  again,  with  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  1  take  ; 
And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 

"  And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow  ; 
The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul,  — 

It  stands  before  me  now  !  " 
The  fearful  boy  looked  up,  and  saw 

Huge  drops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin's  eyelids  kissed, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 

And  Eugene  Aram  walked  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 

Thomas  Hood. 


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PERSONAL  POEMS. 


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ANNE   HATHAWAY. 

TO   THE    IDOL   OF   MY   EVE   AND    DELIGHT   OF   MY  HEART, 
ANNE   HATHAWAY. 

Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  grace  your  song, 
To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay, 
Listen  to  mine  Anne  Hathaway  ! 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phoebus  might  wondering  stop  to  hear. 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay, 
And  nature  charm,  Anne  hath  a  way  ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway  ; 
To  breathe  delight  Anne  hath  a  way. 

When  Envy's  breath  and  rancorous  tooth 

Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth, 

And  merit  to  distress  betray, 

To  soothe  the  heart  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day. 

Thou  know'st,  fund  heart,  Anne  hath  a  way  ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway  ; 
To  make  grief  bliss,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  orient  list, 
The  diamond,  topaz,  amethyst, 
Tin'  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay  ; 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Anne  Hathaway  ! 
she  hath  a  way,  with  her  bright  eye, 
Their  various  lustres  to  defy,  — 
The  jewels  she,  ami  the  ('nil  they, 

So  sweet  to  look  Anne  hath  a  way  ; 

Sin-  hat  h  a  way, 

Anne  I [athaway  ; 
To  sh; ■  brighl  gems,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

But  were  it  to  my  fancy  given 

To  rate  her  charms,  1  'd  call  them  heaven  ; 

For  though  a  mortal  made  of  clay, 

Angela  must  hive  Anne  Hathaway; 

She  hath  a  waj    o  to  control, 

To  rapture,  the  imprisoned  .soul, 


And  sweetest  heaven  on  earth  display, 
That  to  be  heaven  Anne  hath  a  way ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Anne  Hathaway  ; 
To  be  heaven's  self,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Attributed  to  SHAKESPEARE. 


UNDER   THE   PORTRAIT   OF   JOHN 
MILTON, 

PREFIXED   TO    "  PARADISE    LOST." 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed  ; 
The  next  in  majesty  ;  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go  ; 

To  make  a  tliird,  she  joined  the  former  two. 

John  Dkvden. 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   BEN   JONSON. 

The  Muse's  fairest  light  in  no  dark  time, 

The  wonder  of  a  learned  age  ;  the  line 

Which  none  can  pass  ;    the  most  proportioned 

wit,  — 
To  nature,  the  best  judge  of  what  was  tit  ; 
The  deepest,  plainest,  highest,  clearesl  pen  ; 
The  voice  most  echoed  by  consenting  men  ; 
The  soul  which  answered  best  to  all  well  said 
By  others,  and  which  most  requital  made  ; 
Tuned  to  the  highesl  key  of  ancient  Rome, 
Returning  all  her  music  with  his  own  ; 
In  whom,  with  nature,  study  claimed  a  part, 
And  yet  who  to  himself  owed  all  his  ait  : 
Here  lies  Ben  Jonson  '  every  age  will  look 
With  sorrow  here,  with  wonder  on  his  hook. 

I'  IHN   CLEVELAND. 


TO    MACAULAY. 

Tur.  dreamy  rhymer's  measured  snore 
Falls  heavy  on  our  ears  no  more  ; 


T? 


[fr 


702 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


And  by  long  strides  are  left  behind 

The  dear  delights  of  womankind, 

Who  wage  their  battles  like  their  loves, 

In  satin  waistcoats  and  kid  gloves, 

And  have  achieved  the  crowning  work 

Winn  they  have  trussed  and  skewered  a  Turk. 

Another  comes  with  stouter  tread, 

And  stalks  among  the  statelier  dead. 

He  rushes  on,  and  hails  by  turns 

High-crested  Scott,  broad-breasted  Burns  ; 

And  shows  the  British  youth,  who  ne'er 

Will  lag  behind,  what  Romans  were 

When  all  the  Tuscans  and  their  Lars 

Shouted,  and  shook  the  towers  of  Mars. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


TO    H.    W.    L., 

ON   HIS    BIRTHDAY,    27TH    FEBRUARY,    1867. 

I  NEED  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song, 
Where  limpid  verse  to  limpid  verse  succeeds 

Smooth   as  our  Charles,  when,  fearing  lest   he 
wrong 

The  new  moon's  mirrored  skiff,  he  slides  along, 
Full  without  noise,  and  whispers  in  his  reeds. 

With  loving  breath  of  all  the  winds  his  name 
Is  blown  about  the  world,  but  to  his  friends 
A  sweeter  secret  hides  behind  his  fame, 
And  Love  steals  shyly  through  the  loud  acclaim 
To  murmur  a  God  bless  you  !  and  there  ends. 

As  I  muse  backward  up  the  checkered  years 

Wherein  so  much  was  given,  so  much  was  lost, 
Blessings  in  both  kinds,  such  as  cheapen  tears,  — 
But  hush  !  this  is  not  for  profaner  ears  ; 
Let  them  drink  molten  pearls  nor  dream  the 
cost. 

Some  suck  up  poison  from  a  sorrow's  core, 

As  naught  but  nightshade  grew  upon  earth's 
ground  ; 
Love  turned  all  his  to  heart's-ease,  and  the  more 
Fate  tried  his  bastions,  she  but  forced  a  door, 
Leading  to  sweeter  manhood  and  more  sound. 

Even  as  a  wind-waved  fountain's  swaying  shade 
Seems  of  mixed  race,  a  gray  wraith  shot  with 
sun, 
So  through  his  trial  faith  translucent  rayed 
Till  darkness,  half  disnatured  so,  betrayed 
A  heart  of  sunshine  that  would  fain  o'errun. 

Surely  if  skill  in  song  the  shears  may  stay 

And  of  its  purpose  cheat  the  charmed  abyss, 
If  our  poor  lif<-  be  lengthened  by  a  lay, 
He  shall  not  go,  although  his  presence  may, 
And  the  next  age  in  praise  shall  double  this. 


Long  days  be  his,  and  each  as  lusty-sweet 
As  gracious  natures  find  his  song  to  be  ; 
May  Age  steal  on  with  softly-cadenced  feet 
Falling  in  music,  as  for  him  were  meet 

Whose  choicest  verse  is  harsher-toned  than  he  ! 
James  Russell  Lowell. 


VERSES   BY   HENRY   MARTEN, 

THE   REGICIDE. 

[Confined  in  prison  by  Charles  II.,  where  he  died  in  i68r,  after 
thirty  years'  imprisonment.  The  initial  letters  of  the  lines  form  an 
acrostic] 

Here  or  elsewhere  (all 's  one  to  you  —  to  me  !) 
Earth,  air,  or  water  gripes  my  ghostless  dust, 
None  knowing  when  brave  fire  shall  set  it  free. 
Reader,  if  you  an  oft-tried  rule  will  trust, 
You  '11  gladly  do  and  suffer  what  you  must. 


My  life  was  worn  with  serving  you  and  you, 
And  death  is  my  reward,  and  welcome,  too  ; 
Revenge  destroying  but  itself ;  while  I 
To  birds  of  prey  leave  my  old  cage  and  fly. 
Examples  preach  to  the  eye, — care,  then,  mine 

says 
Not  how  you  end  but  how  you  spend  your  days. 

Henry  Marten. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR    MARTEN'S    PRISON- 
ROOM. 

[The  immolation  of  this  republican  judge  was  celebrated  in  the 
following  lines  by  the  youthful  Southey  during  his  short  experience 
as  a  democratic  regenerator.  In  their  original  publication  they 
were  called :  "  Inscription  /or  the  Apartment  in  Cheapstone 
Castle  where  Henry  Marten  the  Regicide  tuas  imprisoned  thirty 
Years."  After  Southey  became  Poet  Laureate  he  endeavored  to 
suppress  the  poem,  but  unsuccessfully.] 

For  thirty  years  secluded  from  mankind, 

Here  Marten  lingered.     Often  have  these  walls 

Echoed  his  footsteps,  as  with  even  tread 

He  paced  around  his  prison  :  not  to  him 

Did  nature's  fair  varieties  exist  : 

He  never  saw  the  sun's  delightful  beams, 

Save  when  through  yon  high  bars  it  poured  a  sad 

And  broken  splendor.     Dost  thou  ask  his  crime  ? 

He  had  rebelled  against  the  king,  and  sat 

In  judgment  on  him  ;  for  his  ardent  mind 

Shaped  goodliest  plans  of  happiness  on  earth, 

And  peace  and  liberty.     Wild  dreams,  but  such 

As  Plato  loved  ;  such  as,  with  holy  zeal, 

Our  Milton  worshipped.     Blessed  hopes  !  awhile 

From  man  withheld,  even  to  the  latter  days, 

When  Christ  shall  come  and  all  things  be  fulfilled. 

Robert  southey. 


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PERSONAL   POEMS. 


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a 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  BROWNRIGG'S  CELL. 

A   PARODY. 

[Canning,  who  was  retained  by  the  other  side,  parodied  Southey's 
honest  lines  in  the  "  Anti-Jacobin,"  November  20,  1797,  by  the  fol- 
lowing verses,  entitled  :  "  Inscription  for  the  Door  0/  the  Cell  in 
Newgate  -where  Mrs.  Brownrigg  the  %Prentice-cide  was  confined 
previous  to  her  Execution."} 

For  one  long  term,  or  ere  her  trial  came, 
Here  Brownrigg  lingered.     Often  have  these  cells 
Echoed  her  blasphemies,  as  with  shrill  voice 
She  screamed  for  fresh  geneva.     Not  to  her 
Did  the  blithe  fields  of  Tothill,  or  thy  street, 
St.  Giles,  its  fair  varieties  expand ; 
Till  at  the  last  in  slow-drawn  cart  she  went 
To  execution.     Dost  thou  ask  her  crime  ? 
She  whipped  two  female  'prentices  to  death, 
And  hid  them  in  the  coal-hole.     For  her  mind 
Shaped    strictest    plans    of    discipline.      Sage 

schemes  ! 
Such  as  Lycurgus  taught,  when  at  the  shrine 
Of  the  Orthyan  goddess  he  bade  flog 
The  little  Spartans  ;  such  as  erst  chastised 
Our  Milton,  when  at  college.     For  this  act 
Did  Brownrigg  swing.     Harsh  laws  !  but  time 

shall  come 

When  France  shall  reign,  and  laws  be  all  repealed. 

George  Canning. 


SMOLLETT. 

Whence  could  arise  the  mighty  critic  spleen, 

The  muse  a  trifler,  and  her  theme  so  mean  ? 

What  had  I  done  that  angry  heaven  should  send 

The  bitterest  foe  where  most  I  wished  a  friend  ? 

Oft  hath  my  tongue  been  wanton  at  this  name, 

Ami  hailed  the  honors  of  thy  matchless  fame. 

For  me  let  hoary  Fielding  bite  the  ground, 

So  nobler  Pickle  stands  superbly  bound  ; 

From  l.ivy's  temples  tear  the  historic  crown, 

Which  with  more  justice  blooms  upon  thy  own. 

Compared  with  thee,  be  all  life-writers  dumb, 

But  he  who  wrote  the  life  of  Tommy  Thumb. 

Who  ever  read  the  Regicide  but  sware 

The  author  wrote  as  man  ne'er  wrote  before  ? 

Others  for  plots  and  underplots  may  call, 

Here  's  the  right  method,  —  have  no  plot  at  all ! 

John  Churchill. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  HOOD. 

TAKE  back  into  thy  bosom,  earth, 

This  joyous,  May-eyed  morrow, 
The  gentlesl  child  thai  ever  mirth 

( Save  to  be  reared  by  sorrow  I 
'T  is  hard  -    while  rays  half  green,  half  gold, 

Through  vernal  bowers  are  burning, 


And  streams  their  diamond  mirrors  hold 

To  summer's  face  returning,  — 
To  say  we  're  thankful  that  his  sleep 

Shall  nevermore  be  lighter, 
In  whose  sweet-tongued  companionship 

Stream,  bower,  and  beam  grew  brighter  ! 

But  all  the  more  intensely  true 

His  soul  gave  out  each  feature 
Of  elemental  love,  —  each  hue 

And  grace  of  golden  nature,  — 
The  deeper  still  beneath  it  all 

Lurked  the  keen  jags  of  anguish  ; 
The  more  the  laurels  clasped  his  brow 

Their  poison  made  it  languish. 
Seemed  it  that,  like  the  nightingale 

Of  his  own  mournful  singing, 
The  tenderer  would  his  song  prevail 

While  most  the  thorn  was  stinging. 

So  never  to  the  desert-worn 

Did  fount  bring  freshness  deeper 
Than  that  his  placid  rest  this  morn 

Has  brought  the  shrouded  sleeper. 
That  rest  may  lap  his  weary  head 

Where  charnels  choke  the  city, 
Or  where,  mid  woodlands,  by  his  bed 

The  wren  shall  wake  its  ditty  ; 
But  near  or  far,  while  evening's  star 

Is  dear  to  hearts  regretting, 
Around  that  spot  admiring  thought 

Shall  hover,  unforgetting. 

Bartholomew  Simmons. 


BURNS. 

ON    RECEIVING   A   SPRIG   OF    HEATHER    IN    BLOSSOM. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 
To  Scottish  maid' and  lover  ; 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 
They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers, 
The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 

The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 
He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns  ! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant  ! 
How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 

Her  pages  old  and  pleasant  ! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  "f  adorning. 
And  manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold 

The  dew  s  of  bo\  hood's  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 
From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure, 


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701 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day, 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 
The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play, 

And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying  ; 
And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 

I  sought  the  maple's  shadow, 
And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 

Forgetful  of  the  meadow  ! 

Bees  hummed,  birds  twittered,  overhead 

I  heard  the  squirrels  leaping  ; 
The  good  dog  listened  while  I  read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

I  watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  "The  Twa  Dogs'  "  story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet's  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs  !  —  The  golden  hours 

Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 
From  brook  and  bird  and  meadow  flowers 

A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New  light  on  home-seen  Nature  beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman  ; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

1  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 

A  still  repining  debtor  : 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid,  Art, 
The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing  ; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were  wandering  there  already  ? 

I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 

The  romance  underlying  ; 
The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 

Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 

The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 
That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 

And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 


I  matched  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 
The  sweet-brier  and  the  clover  ; 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills, 
Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising  ; 
No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing. 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly  ; 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 
Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 

No  inward  answer  gaining  ; 
No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 

The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings  ; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song  !  —  I  own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings  ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty, 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine, 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty  ; 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  between 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 

Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous  chime 

Eternal  echoes  render,  — 
The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme, 

And  Milton's  starry  splendor  ; 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 

To  Nature's  bosom  nearer  ? 
Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 

To  love  a  tribute  dearer  ? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 

The  human  feeling  gushes  ! 
The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 

Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes  ! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 

So  "  Bonny  Doon  "  but  tarry  ; 

Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme, 

But  spare  his  Highland  Mary  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


cil 


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PERSONAL   POEMS. 


705 


■a 


ROBERT    BURNS. 

What  bird  in  beauty,  flight,  or  song 

Can  with  the  bard  compare, 
"Who  sang  as  sweet,  and  soared  as  strong 

As  ever  child  of  air  ? 

His  plume,  his  note,  his  form,  could  Burns 
For  whim  or  pleasure  change  ; 

He  was  not  one,  but  all  by  turns, 
With  transmigration  strange  : 

The  blackbird,  oracle  of  spring, 

"When  flowed  his  moral  lay  ; 
The  swallow,  wheeling  on  the  wing, 

Capriciously  at  play ; 

The  humming-bird  from  bloom  to  bloom 

Inhaling  heavenly  balm  ; 
The  raven,  in  the  tempest's  gloom  ; 

The  halcyon,  in  the  calm  ; 


In  "  auld  Kirk  Alloway,"  the  owl, 
At  witching  time  of  night  ; 

By  "  Bonny  Doon,"  the  earliest  fowl 
That  carolled  to  the  light. 


He  was  the  wren  amidst  the  grove, 

When  in  his  homely  vein  ; 
At  Bannockburn  the  bird  of  Jove, 

With  thunder  in  his  train  ; 

The  wood-lark,  in  his  mournful  hours  ; 

The  goldfinch,  in  his  mirth  ; 
The  thrush,  a  spendthrift  of  his  powers, 

Enrapturing  heaven  and  earth  ; 

The  swan,  in  majesty  and  grace, 

<  lontemplative  and  still  ; 
But,  roused,  —  no  falcon  in  the  chase 

Could  like  his  satire  kill. 

The  linnet  in  simplicity, 

In  tenderness  the  dove  ; 
But  more  than  all  beside  was  he 

Tin-  nightingale  in  love. 

0,  had  he  never  Btooped  to  shame, 

Nor  lenl  a  charm  t<>  vice, 
How  had  devotion  loved  to  name 

That  bird  of  paradise  ! 

Peace  to  tin'  dead  !  —  Tn  Scotia's  choir 

( >f  it ■  i ii -■  it  and  small, 

He  sprang  from  hia  spontaneous  fire, 

The  phoenix  of  them  all. 

Jambs  Montgomery. 


BURNS. 


A  poet's  epitaph. 


Stop,  mortal  !     Here  thy  brother  lies,  — 

The  poet  of  the  poor. 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 

The  meadow  and  the  moor  ; 
His  teachers  were  the  torn  heart's  wail, 

The  tyrant,  and  the  slave, 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail, 

The  palace,  —  and  the  grave  ! 
Sin  met  thy  brother  everywhere  ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blamed  ? 
From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care 

He  no  exemption  claimed. 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  feared  to  scorn  or  hate  ; 
Bnt,  honoring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great,     , 
He  blessed  the  steward,  whose  wealth  makes 

The  poor  man's  little  more  ; 
Yet  loathed  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  plundered  labor's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare,  — 

Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 

Who  drew  them  as  they  are. 

Ebenezer  Elliott. 


BURNS. 


Rear  high  thy  bleak  majestic  hills, 

Thy  sheltered  valleys  proudly  spread, 
And,  Scotia,  pour  thy  thousand  rills, 

And  wave  thy  heaths  with  blossoms  red  ; 
But,  ah  !  what  poet  now  shall  tread 

Thy  airy  heights,  thy  woodland  reign, 
Since  he,  the  sweetest  bard,  is  dead, 

That  ever  breathed  the  soothing  strain  ? 

As  green  thy  towering  pines  may  grow, 

As  clear  thy  streams  may  speed  along, 
As  bright  thy  summer  suns  may  glow, 

As  gayly  charm  thy  feathery  throng  ; 
But  now  unheeded  is  the  song, 

And  dull  and  lifeless  all  around,  — 
For  his  wild  harp  lies  all  unstrung, 

And  cold  the  hand  that  waked  its  sound. 

What  though  thy  vigorous  offspring  rise,  — 

In  arts,  in  arms,  thy  .-mis  excel  ; 
Though  beauty  in  thy  daughters'  eyes, 

And  health  in  every  feature  dwell  ; 
Y<t  who  shall  now  their  praises  tell 

In  strains  impassioned,  fond,  and  free, 
Since  he  no  more  the  song  shall  swell 

To  love  and  liberty  and  thee  | 


William  Roscob. 


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PERSONAL   POEMS. 


"^ 


BURNS. 

That  heaven's  beloved  die  early, 

Prophetic  Pity  mourns  ; 
But  old  as  Truth,  although  in  youth, 

Died  giant-hearted  Burns. 

0  that  I  were  the  daisy 

That  sank  beneath  his  plough  ! 
Or,  "neighbor  meet,"  that  "skylark  sweet  !" 

Say,  are  they  nothing  now  ? 

That  mouse,  "  our  fellow  mortal," 

Lives  deep  in  Nature's  heart  ; 
Like  earth  and  sky,  it  cannot  die 

Till  earth  and  sky  depart. 

Thy  Burns,  child-honored  Scotland  ! 

Is  many  minds  in  one  ; 
With  thought  on  thought  the  name  is  fraught 

Of  glory's  peasant  son. 

Thy  Chaucer  is  thy  Milton, 

And  might  have  been  thy  Tell ; 
As  Hampden  fought,  thy  Sidney  wrote, 

And  would  have  fought  as  well. 

Be  proud,  man-childed  Scotland  ! 

Of  earth's  unpolished  gem  ; 
And  "  Bonny  Doon,"  and  "  heaven  aboon," 

For  Burns  hath  hallowed  them. 

Be  proud,  though  sin-dishonored 

And  grief-baptized  thy  child  ; 
As  rivers  run,  in  shade  and  sun, 

He  ran  his  courses  wild. 

Grieve  not  though  savage  forests 

Looked  grimly  on  the  wave, 
Where  dim-eyed  flowers  and  shaded  bowers 

Seemed  living  in  the  grave. 

Grieve  not,  though  by  the  torrent 

Its  headlong  course  was  riven, 
When  o'er  it  came,  in  clouds  and  flame, 

Niagara  from  heaven  ! 

For  sometimes  gently  flowing, 

And  sometimes  chafed  to  foam, 
O'er  slack  and  deep,  by  wood  and  steep, 

He  sought  his  heavenly  home. 

Ebenezer  Elliott. 


BURNS. 


His  is  that  language  of  the  heart 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek  ; 


And  his  that  music  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

Through  care  and  pain  and  want  and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures  the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel, 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave  ; 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard  !  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man  !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes,  — 

Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good,  — 
As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is,  — 
The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

FlTZ-GREENE  HALLBCK. 


BYRON. 

FROM    "THE   COURSE   OF   TIME." 

Take  one  example  to  our  purpose  quite. 
A  man  of  rank,  and  of  capacious  soul, 
Who  riches  had,  and  fame,  beyond  desire, 
An  heir  of  flattery,  to  titles  born, 
And  reputation,  and  luxurious  life  : 
Yet,  not  content  with  ancestorial  name, 
Or  to  be  known  because  his  fathers  were, 
He  on  this  height  hereditary  stood, 
And,  gazing  higher,  purposed  in  his  heart 


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PERSONAL   POEMS. 


707 


a 


To  take  another  step.     Above  him  seemed, 

Alone,  the  mount  of  song,  the  lofty  seat 

Of  canonized  bards  ;  and  thitherward, 

By  nature  taught,  and  inward  melody, 

In  prime  of  youth,  he  bent  his  eagle  eye. 

No  cost  was  spared.     What  books  he  wished,  he 

read  ; 
What  sage  to  hear,  he  heard  ;  what  scenes  to  see, 
He  saw.     And  first  in  rambling  school-boy  days, 
Britannia's  mountain- walks,  and  heath-girt  lakes, 
And  story-telling  glens,  and  founts,  and  brooks, 
And  maids,  as  dew-drops  pure  and  fair,  his  soul 
With  grandeur  filled,  and  melody,  and  love. 
Then  travel  came,  and  took  him  where  he  wished : 
He  cities  saw,  and  courts,  and  princely  pomp  ; 
And  mused  alone  on  ancient  mountain-brows  ; 
And  mused  on  battle-fields,  where  valor  fought 
In  other  days  ;  and  mused  on  ruins  gray 
With  years  ;  and  drank  from  old  and  fabulous 

wells, 
And  plucked  the  vine  that  first-born  prophets 

plucked  ; 
And  mused  on  famous  tombs,  and  on  the  wave 
Of  ocean  mused,  and  on  the  desert  waste  ; 
The  heavens  and  earth  of  every  country  saw  ; 
Where'er  the  old  inspiring  Genii  dwelt  ; 
Aught  that  could  rouse,  expand,  refine  the  soul, 
Thither  he  went,  and  meditated  there. 

He  touched  his  harp,  and  nations  heard  en- 
tranced ; 
As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing  source, 
Rapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  numbers  flowed, 
And  opened  new  fountains  in  the  human  heart. 
Where  Fancy  halted,  weary  in  her  flight, 
In  other  men,  his  fresh  as  morning  rose, 
And  soared  untrodden  heights,  and  seemed  at 

home, 
Where  angels  bashful  looked.     Others,  though 

great, 
Beneath  theirargument  seemed  struggling  whiles ; 
He,  from  above  descending,  stooped  to  touch 
The  loftiest  thought  ;  and  proudly  stooped,  as 

though 
li  scarce  deserved  his  verse.     W.th  Nature's  self 
He  seemed  an  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest 
At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  "  the  <  Ocean's  mane," 
And  played  familiar  with  his  hoary  locks  ; 
Stood  on  the  Alps,  stood  on  the  Apennines, 
Ami  with  the  thunder  talked  as  friend  to  friend  ; 
And  wove  his  garland  of  the  lightning's  wing, 
In  sportive  twist,       the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Which,  as  the  footsteps  of  the  dreadful  God, 
Marching  upon  the  storm  iii  vengeance  seemed  ; 
Then  turned,  and  with  the  grasshopper,  who  sung 
His  evening  song  beneath  his  feet,  conversed. 
Suns,   nn  I   -i.i!-,  and  clouds   his 

were  ; 


Rocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas,  and  winds,  and 

storms 
His  brothers,  younger  brothers,  whom  he  scarce 
As  equals  deemed.     All  passions  of  all  men, 
The  wild  and  tame,  the  gentle  and  severe  ; 
All  thoughts,  all  maxims,  sacred  and  profane  ; 
All  creeds,  all  seasons,  time,  eternity  ; 
All  that  was  hated,  and  all  that  was  dear ; 
All  that  was  hoped,  all  that  was  feared,  by  man,  — 
He  tossed  about,  as  tempest-withered  leaves  ; 
Then,  smiling,  looked  upon  the  wreck  be  made. 
With  terror  now  he  froze  the  cowering  blood, 
And  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  tenderness ; 
Yet  would  not  tremble,  would  not  weep  himself ; 
But  back  into  his  soul  retired,  alone, 
Dark,  sullen,  proud,  gazing  contemptuously 
On  hearts  and  passions  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
So  Ocean,  from  the  plains  his  waves  had  late 
To  desolation  swept,  retired  in  pride, 
Exulting  in  the  glory  of  his  might, 
And  seemed  to  mock  the  ruin  he  had  wrought. 

As  some  fierce  comet  of  tremendous  size, 
To  which  the  stars  did  reverence  as  it  passed, 
So  he,  through  learning  and  through  fancy,  took 
His  flights  sublime,  and  on  the  loftiest  top 
Of  Fame's  dread  mountain  sat ;  not  soiled  and  worn, 
As  if  he  from  the  earth  had  labored  up, 
But  as  some  bird  of  heavenly  plumage  fair 
He  looked,  which  down  from  higher  regions  came, 
And  perched  it  there,  to  see  what  lay  beneath. 
The  nations  gazed,  and  wondered  much  and 
praised. 
Critics  before  him  fell  in  humble  plight ; 
Confounded  fell  ;  and  made  debasing  signs 
To  catch  his  eye  ;   and  stretched   and  swelled 

themselves 
To  bursting  nigh,  to  utter  bulky  words 
Of  admiration  vast ;  and  many  too, 
Many  that  aimed  to  imitate  his  flight, 
With  weaker  wing,  unearthly  fluttering  made, 
And  gave  abundant  sport  to  after  days. 

Great  man!  the  nations  gazed  and  wondered 
much, 
And  praised  ;  and  many  called  his  evil  good. 
Wits  wrote  in  favor  of  his  wickedness  ; 
And  kings  to  do  him  honor  took  delight. 
Thus  full  of  titles.  Battery,  honor,  fame; 
Beyond  desire,  beyond  ambition,  full, — 
He  died,  —  he  died  of  what  ?    Of  wretchedness  ; 
Drank  every  cup  of  joy,  heard  every  trump 
Of   fame  ;    drank    early,    deeply    drank  ;    drank 

draughts 
Thai   common   millions  might   have  quenched, 

then  died 
<  >f  thirst,  because  there  was  no  more  to  di  ink. 
His  goddess,  Nature,  wooed,  embraced,  enjoyed, 
Fell  from  his  anus,  abhorred  ;  his  passions  died, 
Died,  all  but  dreary,  solitary  Pride  ; 


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PERSONAL   POEMS. 


And  all  his  sympathies  in  being  died. 

As  some  ill-guided  bark,  well  built  and  tall, 

Which  angry  tides  cast  out  on  desert  shore, 

And  then,  retiring,  left  it  there  to  rot 

And  moulder  in  the  winds  and  rains  of  heaven  ; 

So  he,  cut  from  the  sympathies  of  life, 

And  east  ashore  from  pleasure's  boisterous  surge, 

A  wandering,  weary,  worn,  and  wretched  thing, 

Scorched  and  desolate  and  blasted  soul, 

A  gloomy  wilderness  of  dying  thought,  — 

Repined,  and  groaned,  and  withered  from  the 

earth. 
His  groanings  filled  the  land  his  numbers  filled  ; 
And  yet  he  seemed  ashamed  to  groan.  —  Poor 

man  ! 
Ashamed  to  ask,  and  yet  he  needed  help. 

ROBERT  POLLOK. 


CAMP-BELL. 


CHARADE. 


Come  from  my  first,  ay,  come  ! 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh  ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thundering 
drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die  ! 

Eight  as  thy  father  fought ; 

Fall  as  thy  father  fell  ; 
Thy  task  is  taught  ;  thy  shroud  is  wrought ; 

So  forward  and  farewell  ! 

Toll  ye  my  second  !  toll ! 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light, 
And  sing  the  hymn  for  a  parted  soul 

Beneath  the  silent  night ! 

The  wreath  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast ; 
Let  the  prayer  be  said  and  the  tear  be  shed, 

So,  —  take  him  to  his  rest  ! 

Call  ye  my  whole,  —  ay,  call 

The  lord  of  lute  and  lay  ; 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day. 

Go,  call  him  by  his  name  ! 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave. 

WlNTHROP  MACKWORTH   PRAED, 


TO   THOMAS   MOORE. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 
And  my  barl:  is  on  the  sea  ; 


But  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here 's  a  double  health  to  thee  ! 

Here 's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate  ; 

And,  whatever  sky 's  above  me, 
Here 's  a  heart  for  every  fate  ! 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'T  is  to  thee  that  1  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  po.ir 
Should  be,  —  Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 

BYRON. 


A   BARD'S   EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  near, 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song, 

AVho,  noteless,  steals  the  crowd  among, 

That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

0,  pass  not  by  ! 
But,  with  a  frater-feeling  strong, 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave  ; 
Here  pause,  and,  through  the  starting  tear, 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  sober  flame  ; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stained  his  name  ! 

Reader,  attend,  —  whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkly  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


Burns. 


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PERSONAL   POEMS. 


709 


ta 


EPITAPH   OX   THE   COUNTESS    OF 
PEMBROKE. 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother  ; 
Death  !  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Learned  and  fair  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

BEN  JONSON. 


EPITAPH   ON   ELIZABETH   L.  H. 

"Wouldst  thou  heare  what  man  can  say 

In  a  little  ?  —  reader,  stay  ! 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lye 

As  much  beauty  as  could  dye,  — 

Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 

To  more  vertue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth,  — 

The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death  : 

Fitter  where  it  dyed  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell  ! 

Ben  Jonson. 


But  did  not  chance  at  length  her  error  mend  ? 

Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end  ? 

Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound, 

Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground  ! 

His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 

A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  ; 

He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 

To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale. 

Samuel  John-son 


CHARLES   XII. 

Ox  what  foundations  stands  the  warrior's  pride, 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide  : 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labors  tire  ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 
Unconquered  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain. 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield, 
War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field  ; 
Behold  surrounding  kings  their  power  combine, 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign  ; 
Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms  in 

vain  ; 
"Think  nothing  gained,"  lie  cries,  "tillnaughl 

remain, 
On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly, 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state, 
And  nations  mi  his  eye  suspended  wait  ; 
Stem  famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
Ami  winter  barricades  the  realms  of  frost. 
lb-  comes,  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay  ; 
Hide,  blushing  glory,  bide  Pultowa's  daj  I 
The  vanquished  hero  leave,  hi-,  broken  bands, 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands  ; 

Condemned  a  sdy  supplicanl  to  wait, 

While  ladies  interpose  ami  slaves  debate. 


EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT,  EARL  OF  OXFOKD 
AND   EARL   OF   MORTIMER. 

[Sent  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford  with  Dr.  Parnell's  Poems,  published 
by  the  author  after  the  said  earl's  imprisonment  in  the  Tower,  and 
retreat  into  the  country,  in  the  year  1731.] 

Sttch  were  the  notes  thy  once-loved  poet  sung, 
Till  death  untimely  stopped  his  tuneful  tongue. 
O  just  beheld,  and  lost  !  admired  and  mourned  ! 
With  softest  manners,  gentlest  arts  adorned  ! 
Blest  in  each  science,  blest  in  every  strain  ! 
Dear  to  the  Muse  —  to  Harley  dear  —  in  vain  ! 
For  him,  thou  oft  hast  bid  the  world  attend, 
Fond  to  forget  the  statesman  in  the  friend  ; 
For  Swift  and  him,  despised  the  farce  of  state, 
The  sober  follies  of  the  wise  and  great  ; 
Dexterous  the  craving,  fawning  crowd  to  quit, 
And  pleased  to'  scape  from  Flattery  to  Wit. 
Absent  or  dead,  still  let  a  friend  be  dear, 
(A  sigh  the  absent  claims,  the  dead  a  tear,) 
Recall  those  nights  that  closed  thy  toilsome  days, 
Still  hear  thy  Parnell  in  his  living  lays, 
Who,  careless  now  of  interest,  fame,  or  fate, 
Perhaps  forgets  that  Oxford  e'er  was  great ; 
Or,  deeming  meanest  what  we  greatest  call, 
Beholds  thee  glorious  only  in  thy  fall. 

And  sure,  if  aught  below  the  seats  divine 
Can  touch  immortals,  't  is  a  soul  like  thine,  — 
A  soul  supreme,  iii  each  hard  instance  tried, 
Above  all  pain,  all  passion,  and  all  pride, 
The  rage  of  power,   the  Mast   of  public  breath, 
The  lust  of  lucre,  and  the  dread  of  death. 
In  vain  to  deserts  thy  retreal  is  made. 
The  Muse  attends  thee  to  thy  silent  shade  : 
Tis  hers  the  brave  man's  latest  steps  to  trace, 
Rejudge  his  acts,  and  dignify  disgrace. 
When  interest  rails  ..If  all  her  si  lea  k  ing  train, 
And  all  the  obliged  desert,  and  all  the  vain  ; 
She  waits,  or  to  the  scaffold,  or  the  cell, 
When  the  last  lingering  friend  has  hid  farewell. 
Even  now  she  shades  thy  evening  walk  with  bays 
(No  landing  she,  no  prostitute  to  praise), 
Even  now,  observant  of  the  parting  ray, 
Eyes  the  calm  sunset  of  thy  various  'lay  ; 
Through  Fortune's  cloud  one  truly  greal  can  see, 
Nor  fears  to  tell,  that  Mortimer  is  he. 

Ai  1  KANDKK    1'' 


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PERSONAL   POEMS. 


THE   MAX   OF   ROSS. 

FROM    "MORAL   ESSAYS." 

[Mr.  Tohn  Kyrle.     He  died  in  the  year  1724,  aged  90,  and  lies 
interred  in  the  chancel  of  the  church  of  Ross  in  Herefordshire.] 

PrT  all  our  praises  why  should  lords  engross  ? 
Rise,  honest  muse  !  and  sing  the  Man  of  Ross  ; 
Pleased  Vaga  echoes  through  her  winding  bounds, 
And  rapid  Severn  hoarse  applause  resounds. 
Who  hung  with  woods  yon  mountain's  sultry 

brow  ? 
From  the  dry  rock  who  bade  the  waters  flow  ? 
Not  to  the  skies  in  useless  columns  tost, 
Or  in  proud  falls  magnificently  lost, 
But  clear  and  artless,  pouring  through  the  plain 
Health  to  the  sick,  and  solace  to  the  swain. 
Whose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with  shady  rows  ? 
Whose  seats  the  weary  traveller  repose  ? 
"Who  taught  that  heaven-directed  spire  to  rise  ? 
"  The  Man  of  Ross  !  "  each  lisping  babe  replies. 
Behold  the  market-place  with  poor  o'erspread  ! 
The  Man  of  Ross  divides  the  weekly  bread  ; 
He  feeds  yon  almshouse,  neat,  but  void  of  state, 
"Where  age  and  want  sit  smiling  at  the  gate  : 
Him    portioned    maids,     apprenticed    orphans 

blest, 
The  young  who  labor,  and  the  old  who  rest. 
Is  any  sick  ?  the  Man  of  Ross  relieves, 
Prescribes,  attends,  the  medicine  makes  andgives. 
Is  there  a  variance  ?  enter  but  his  door, 
Balked  are  the  courts,  and  contest  is  no  more. 
Despairing  quacks  with  curses  fled  the  place, 
And  vile  attorneys,  now  a  useless  race. 

B.  Thrice  happy  man  !  enabled  to  pursue 
What  all  so  wish,  but  want  the  power  to  do  ! 
0  say,  what  sums  that  generous  hand  supply  ? 
"What  mines  to  swell  that  boundless  charity  ? 

P.   Of  debts  and  taxes,  wife  and  children  clear, 
This  man  possessed  —  five  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
Blush,  grandeur,  blush  ;  proud  courts,  withdraw 

your  blaze  ! 
Ye  little  stars,  hide  yonr  diminished  rays  ! 

B.  And  what?  no  monument,  inscription,  stone? 
His  ra<c,  his  form,  his  name,  almost  unknown  ? 

P.  Who  builds  a  church  to  God,  and  not  to 
fame, 
Will  never  mark  the  marble  with  his  name  : 
Go,  search  it  there,  where  to  be  born  and  die, 
Of  rich  and  poor  makes  all  the  history  ; 
Enough  that  virtue  filled  the  space  between, 
Proved  by  the  ends  of  being  to  have  been. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


TO   THE   LORD-GENERAL   CROMWELL. 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a  cloud, 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 


Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 
To  peace  and   truth  thy  glorious   way   hast 
ploughed ; 
And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  fortune  proud 
Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work  pur- 
sued, 
While  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scots  im- 
brued, 
And  Dunbar  field  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 
And  Worcester's  laureate  wreath.     Yet  much  re- 
mains 
To  conquer  still ;  Peace  hath  her  victories 
No  less  renowned  than  War  :  new  foes  arise, 
Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular  chains : 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their  maw. 

Milton. 


THE   PRINCESS   CHARLOTTE. 

FROM    "CHILDE    HAROLD." 

Hark  !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long,  low,  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound  ; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rend- 
ing ground, 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  dis- 
crowned, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no 
relief. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou  ? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead  ? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head  ? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy, 
Death  hushed  that  pang  forever  :  with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  filled  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seemed 
to  cloy. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety.  —  Can  it  be, 
0  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored  ! 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for 

thee, 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to 

hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  One  :  for  she  had  poured 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris.  —  Thou,  too,  lonely  lord, 
And  desolate  consort,  —  vainly  wert  thou  wed  1 
The  husband  of  a  year  !  the  father  of  the  dead  ! 


G 


9 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


711 


■a 


Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made  ; 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes  ;  in  the  dust 
The  fair-haired  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions  !     How  we  did  intrust 
Futurity  to  her  !  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  her  bones,  yet  fondly  deemed 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  blessed 
Her   and  her  hoped-for  seed,   whose  promise 

seemed 
Like   stars   to   shepherds'  eyes  :  —  't  was  but  a 

meteor  beamed. 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her  ;  for  she  sleeps  well  : 
The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
"Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rang 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'erstung 
Nationshave  armedin  madness,  the  strange  fate 
"Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath 

flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon 

or  late,  — 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny  ;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it  :  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe  ; 
.  But  now  a  bride  and  mother,  —and  now  there  ! 
How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear  ! 
From  thy  sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  linked  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  op- 

prest 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could 

love  thee  best. 

BYRON. 


DANIEL   BOONE. 


FROM    "DON   JUAN. 


Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer, 

Who  passes  for  in  life  and  death  most  lucky, 

Of  tlif  great  names  which  in  our  faces  stare, 
The  General  Bpone.back  woodsman  of  Kentucky, 

Was  happiesl  amongst  mortals  anywhere  ; 
Fur,  killing  nothing  bul  a  bear  or  buck,  he 

Enjoyed  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days 

Of  his  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  maze. 

le  came  not  near  him.  sin-  is  not  the  child 
Of  solitude;  Health  shrunk  nut  from  him,  fur 

Her  home  is  in  the  rarely  trodden  wild, 
Where  if  men  seek  her  not,  mid  death  he  more 

Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  them,  as  beguiled 
By  habit  t..  whal  their  own  hearts  abhor, 

In  cities  caged.     The  present  '-use  in  point  I 

Cite  is,  thai  Boone  lived  hunting  up  to  ninety  ; 


And,  what 's  still  stranger,  left  behind  a  name 
For  which  men  vainly  decimate  the  throng, 

Not  only  famous,  but  of  that  good  fame, 

Without  which  glory  's  but  a  tavern  song,  — 

Simple,  serene,  the  antipodes  of  shame, 

Which  hate  nor  envy  e'er  could   tinge  with 
wrong  ; 

An  active  hermit,  even  in  age  the  child 

Of  nature,  or  the  Man  of  Ross  run  wild. 

'T  is  true  he  shrank  from  men,  even  of  his  nation, 
AVhen  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees,  — 

He  moved  some  hundred  miles  oil',  for  a  station 
Where  there  were  fewer  houses  and  more  ease  ; 

The  inconvenience  of  civilization 

Is  that  you  neither  can  be  pleased  nor  please  ; 

But  where  he  met  the  individual  man, 

He  showed  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 

He  was  not  all  alone  ;  around  him  grew 
A  sylvan  tribe  of  children  of  the  chase, 

"Whose  young,  unwakened  world  was  ever  new  : 
Nor  sword  nor  sorrow  yet  had  left  a  trace 

On  her  unwrinkled  brow,  nor  could  you  view 
A  frown  on  nature's  or  on  human  face  ;  — 

The  freeborn  forest  found  and  kept  them  free, 

And  fresh  as  is  a  torrent  or  a  tree. 

And  tall,  and  strong,  and  swift  of  foot,  were  they, 
Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's  pale  abortions, 

Because  their  thoughts  had  never  been  the  prey 
Of  care  or  gain  :  the  green  woods  were  their 
portions  ; 

No  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew  gray  ; 
No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her  distortions  ; 

Simple  they  were,  not  savage  ;  and  their  rifles, 

Though  very  true,  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 

Motion  was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slumbers, 
And  cheerfulness  the  handmaid  of  their  toil  ; 

Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers  ; 
Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her  soil. 

The  lust  which  stings,  the  splendor  which  en- 
cumbers, 
With  the  free  foresters  divide  no  spoil ; 

Serene,  not  sullen,  were  the  solitudes 

Of  this  unsighing  people  of  the  woods. 

BYRON. 


NAPOLEON. 

'T  IS  done,  —  but  yesterday  a  king  ! 

And  armed  witli  kings  to  strive, — 
And  now  thou  ait  a  nameless  thing; 

So  abject,      yet  alive  ! 

Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones. 

Who  strewed  our  earth  with  hostile  hones, 
And  can  he  thus  survive  .' 


<&- 


ff 


r3 


'12 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 


~& 


Since  lie,  miscalled  the  Morning  Star, 
Nor  mail  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Ill-minded  man  !  why  scourge  thy  kind 

Who  bowed  so  low  the  knee  ? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  unquestioned,  —  power  to  save, 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave 

To  those  that  worshipped  thee  ; 
Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition's  less  than  littleness  ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson,  —  it  will  teach 

To  after  warriors  more 
Than  high  philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preached  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway, 
With  fronts  of  brass  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  triumph  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife  ; 
The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life  ; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seemed  made  but  to  obey, 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife,  — 
All  quelled  !  —  Dark  spirit !  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  ! 

The  desolator  desolate  ! 

The  victor  overthrown  ! 
The  arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  suppliant  for  his  own  ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope, 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope  ? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 
To  die  a  prince,  or  live  a  slave,  — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave  ! 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak 

Dreamed  not  of  the  rebound  ; 
Chained  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke,  — 

Alone,  — how  looked  he  round  ? 
Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength, 
An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length, 

And  darker  fate  hast  found  : 
He  fell,  the  forest-prowlers'  prey  ; 
But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away  ! 

The  Roman,  when  his  burning  heart 
Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 

Threw  down  the  dagger,  dared  depart, 
In  savage  grandeur,  home. 


He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn 

Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom  ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandoned  power. 

The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  sway 

Had  lost'its  quickening  spell, 
Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 

An  empire  for  a  cell ; 
A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 
A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 

His  dotage  trifled  well ; 
Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 
A  bigot's  shrine  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou,  —  from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung,  — 
Too  late  thou  leav'st  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung. 
All  evil  spirit  as  thou  art, 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung  ; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  mean  ! 

And  Earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own  ! 
And  monarchs  bowed  the  trembling  limb, 

And  thanked  him  for  a  throne  ! 
Fair  Freedom  !  may  we  hold  thee  dear, 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
0,  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind  ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore, 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain  ; 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain. 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honor  dies, 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise, 

To  shame  the  world  again  ; 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night  ? 

Weighed  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay  ; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality  !  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away  : 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  spark  should  animate, 

To  dazzle  and  dismay  ; 
Nor  deemed  contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 
Of  these,  the  conquerors  of  the  earth. 


And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 
Thy  still  imperial  bride  ; 


m- 


--& 


rp- 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


713 


How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour  ? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  ? 
Must  she,  too,  bend,  —  must  she,  too,  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  throneless  homicide  ? 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem  ; 
'T  is  worth  thy  vanished  diadem  ! 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea  ; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile,  — 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee  ! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all-idle  hand, 
In  loitering  mood,  upon  the  sand, 

That  earth  is  now  as  free  ! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  hath  now 
Transferred  his  byword  to  thy  brow. 

Thou  Timour  !  in  his  captive's  cage,  — 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine, 

While  brooding  in  thy  prisoned  rage  ? 
But  one,  —  "  The  world  was  mine  !  " 

Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 

All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 
Life  will  not  long  confine 

That  spirit  poured  so  widely  forth,  — 

So  long  obeyed,  so  little  worth  ! 

Or,  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven, 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock  ? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven, 

His  vulture  and  his  rock  ! 
Foredoomed  by  God,  by  man  accurst, 
Ami  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst, 

Tlie  very  fiend's  arch  mock  : 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride, 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died  ! 

BYRON. 


<&-■ 


ICHABOD. 

DANIEL   WEBSTER.       1850. 

So  fallen  !  so  lost  !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  mice  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore  ! 

Revile  him  not,  — the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all  ! 
Ami  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

I'..  I:!    his  fall  ! 

<>,  dumb  he  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  ami  led  his  age 

Falls  back  in  night  ! 

Scorn  !  wonld  the  angels  laugh  to  mark 
A  brighl  soul  driven, 


Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 
From  hope  and  heaven  ? 

Let  not  the  land,  once  proud  of  him, 

Insult  him  now ; 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains,  — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone  ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


THE  DEAD  CZAR  NICHOLAS. 

Lay  him  beneath  his  snows, 

The  great  Norse  giant  who  in  these  last  days 

Troubled  the  nations.     Gather  decently 

The  imperial  robes  about  him.   'T  is  but  man,  — . 

This  denii-god.     Or  rather  it  ivas  man, 

And  is  —  a  little  dust,  that  will  corrupt 

As  fast  as  any  nameless  dust  which  sleeps 

'Neath  Alma's  grass  or  Balaklava's  vines. 

No  vineyard  grave  for  him.     No  quiet  tomb 
By  river  margin,  where  across  the  seas 
Children's  fond  thoughts  and  women's  memories 

come 
Like  angels,  to  sit  by  the  sepulchre, 
Saying  :  "All  these  were  men  who  knew  to  count, 
Front-faced,  the  cost  of  honor,  nor  did  shrink 
From  its  full  payment  ;  coming  here  to  die, 
They  died  —  like  men." 

Bui  this  man  ?   Ah  !  for  him 
Funereal  state,  and  ceremonial  grand, 
The  stone-engraved  sarcophagus,  and  then 
( ►blivion. 

Nay,  oblivion  were  as  bliss 
To  that  tierce  howl  which  rollsfrom  land  to  land 
Exulting,  —  "  Art  thou  fallen,  Lucifer, 
Son  of  the  morning  ?  "  or  condemning,  —  "Thus 


-B1 


'14 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


a 


Perish  the  wicked  !  "  or  blaspheming,  —  "  Here 
Lies  our  Belshazzar,  our  Sennacherib, 

Our  Pharaoh,  — he  whose  heart  God  hardened, 
So  that  he  would  not  let  the  people  go." 

Self-glorifyittg  sinners  !     Why,  this  man 

Was  but  like  other  men  :  —  you,  Levite  small, 

Who  shut  your  saintly  ears,  and  prate  of  hell 

And  heretics,  because  outside  church-doors, 

Your  church-doors,  congregations  poor  and  small 

Praise  Heaven  in  their  own  way  ;  — you,  autocrat 

Of  all  the  hamlets,  who  add  field  to  field 

And  house  to  house,  whose  slavish  children  cower 

Before  your  tyrant  footstep  ;  —you,  foul-tongued 

Fanatic  or  ambitious  egotist, 

"Who  thinks  God  stoops  from  his  high  majesty 

To  lay  his  finger  on  your  puny  head, 

And  crown  it,  that  you  henceforth  may  parade 

Your    maggotship   throughout    the    wondering 

world,  — 
"I  am  the  Lord's  anointed  !  " 

Fools  and  blind  ! 
This  Czar,  this  emperor,  this  disthroned  corpse, 
Lying  so  straightly  in  an  icy  calm 
Grander  than  sovereignty,  was  but  as  ye,  — 
No  better  and  no  worse  ;  —  Heaven  mend  us  all  ! 

Carry  him  forth  and  bury  him.     Death's  peace 
Rest  on  his  memory  !     Mercy  by  his  bier 
Sits  silent,  or  says  only  these  few  words,  — 
"  Let  him  who  is  without  sin  'mongst  ye  all 
Cast  the  first  stone.  dinah  Maria  mulock. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

FROM    THE    "  COMMEMORATION   ODE." 
•  .  ■  •  • 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
A  nd  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 
So  bountiful  is  Fate  ; 
But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 
This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid 
earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 

Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief : 


Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 
Nature  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote  : 
For  him  her  Old  World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 
Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead  ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and 
thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind  ; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  ecpual  scheme  deface  ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face 
to  face. 
I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late  ; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  lie  : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 
Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 
But  at  last  silence  conies  ; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 

Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 

New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 


James  Russell  Lowell. 


■&- 


-i> 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


715 


■ft 


BURIAL   OF   LINCOLN. 

Peace  !    Let  the  long  procession  come, 
For  hark  !  —  the  mournful,  muffled  drum, 

The  trumpet's  wail  afar  ; 

And  see  !  the  awful  car  ! 

Peace  !    Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
While  cannon  boom,  and  bells  toll  slow  ; 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar  ! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
AY  hose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 

To  honor,  all  they  can, 
The  dust  of  that  good  man  ! 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain  : 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave  ! 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 
Salute  him  once  again, 
Your  late  commander,  — slain  I 

Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall ; 
Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge,  the  plough  ! 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 

But  in  his  modest  home, 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 
And  there  his  bones  be  laid  ! 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 
And  strangers,  far  and  near, 
For  many  and  many  a  year  ! 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age, 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 
The  virtues  shall  enroll 

Of  that  paternal  soul  ! 

Richard  henry  Stoddard. 


KANE. 

DIBD    PKDRt'ARY    l6,    1857. 

Aloft  npon  an  old  basaltic  crag, 

Which,  Bcalped  by  keen  winds  that  defend  the 

Pole 
Gazes  with  dead  face  on  the  seas  that  roll 


Around  the  secret  of  the  mystic  zone* 
A  mighty  nation's  star-bespangled  flag 

Flutters  alone, 
And  underneath,  upon  the  lifeless  front 

Of  that  drear  cliff,  a  simple  name  is  traced  ; 
Fit  type  of  him  who,  famishing  and  gaunt, 
But  with  a  rocky  purpose  in  his  soul, 
Breasted  the  gathering  snows, 
Clung  to  the  drifting  floes, 
By  want  beleaguered,  and  by  winter  chased, 
Seeking  the  brother  lost  amid  that  frozen  waste. 

Not  many  months  ago  we  greeted  him, 

Crowned  with  the  icy  honors  of  the  North, 
Across  the  land  his  hard-won  fame  went  forth, 
And  Maine's  deep  •woods  were  shaken  limb  by  limb. 
His  own  mild  Keystone  State,  sedate  and  prim, 
Burst  from  decorous  quiet  as  he  came. 
Hot  Southern  lips,  with  eloquence  aflame, 
Sounded  his  triumph.     Texas,  wild  and  grim, 
Profferedits  horny  hand.  The  large-lunged  West, 

From  out  his  giant  breast, 
Yelled  itsfrank  welcome.  And  from  main  to  main, 
Jubilant  to  the  sky, 
Thundered  the  mighty  cry, 
Honor  to  Kane  ! 

In  vain,  —  in  vain  beneath  his  feet  we  flung 
The  reddening  roses  !   All  in  vain  we  poured 
The  golden  wine,  and  round  the  shining  board 
Sent  the  toast  circling,  till  the  rafters  rung 
With  the  thrice-tripled  honors  of  the  feast  ! 
Scarce  the  buds  wilted  and  the  voices  ceased 
Ere  the  pure  light  that  sparkled  in  his  eyes, 
Bright  as  auroral  fires  in  Southern  skies, 

Faded  and  faded  !    And  the  brave  young  heart 
That  the  relentless  Arctic  winds  had  robbed 
Of  all  its  vital  heat,  in  that  long  quest 
For  the  lost  captain,  now  within  his  breast 

More  and  more  faintly  throbbed. 
His  was  the  victor}' ;  but  as  his  grasp 
Closed  on  the  laurel  crown  with  eager  clasp, 
Death  launched  a  whistling  dart  ; 
And  ere  the  thunders  of  applause  were  done 
His  bright  eyes  closed  forever  on  the  sun  ! 
Too  late,  —  too  late  the  splendid  prize  he  won 
In  the  Olympic  race  of  Science  and  of  Art  ! 
Like  to  some  shattered  berg  that,  pale  and  lone, 
Drifts  from  the  white  North  to  a  Tropic  zone, 
And  in  the  burning  day 
Wastes  peak  by  peak  away, 
Till  on  some  rosy  even 
It  dies  with  sunlight  blessing  it ;  so  he 
Tranquilly  floated  to  a  Southern  sea, 
And  melted  into  heaven  ! 

He  needs  no  tears  who  lived  a  noble  life  ! 
We  "ill  nol  weep  for  him  who  died  so  well  ; 
But  we  will  gather  round  the  hearth,  and  tell 


ca~ 


9 


716 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


The  story  of  his  strife  ; 
Such  homage  suits  him  well, 
Better  than  funeral  pomp  or  passing  bell ! 

What  tale  of  peril  and  self-sacrifice  ! 
Prisoned  amid  the  fastnesses  of  ice, 

With  hunger  howling  o'er  the  wastes  of  snow  ! 

Night  lengthening  into  months  ;  the  ravenous 
floe 
Crunching  the  massive  ships,  as  the  white  bear 
Crunches  his  prey.     The  insufficient  share 

Of  loathsome  food  ; 
The  lethargy  of  famine  ;  the  despair 

Urging  to  labor,  nervelessly  pursued  ; 

Toil  done  with  skinny  arms,  and  faces  hued 
Like  pallid  masks,  while  dolefully  behind 
Glimmered  the  fading  embers  of  a  mind  ! 
That  awful  hour,  when  through  the  prostrate  band 
Delirium  stalked,  laying  his  burning  hand 

Upon  the  ghastly  foreheads  of  the  crew  ; 

The  whispers  of  rebellion,  faint  and  few 

At  first,  but  deepening  ever  till  they  grew 
Into  black  thoughts  of  murder,  — such  the  throng 
Of  horrors  bound  the  hero.     High  the  song 
Should  be  that  hymns  the  noble  part  he  played  ! 
Sinking  himself,  yet  ministering  aid 

To  all  around  him.     By  a  mighty  will 

Living  defiant  of  the  wants  that  kill, 
Because  his  death  would  seal  his  comrades'  fate  ; 

Cheering  with  ceaseless  and  inventive  skill 
Those  polar  waters,  dark  and  desolate. 
Equal  to  every  trial,  every  fate, 

He  stands,  until  spring,  tardy  with  relief, 
Unlocks  the  icy  gate, 
And  the  pale  prisoners  thread  the  world  once  more, 
To  the  steep  cliffs  of  Greenland's  pastoral  shore 
Bearing  their  dying  chief  ! 

Time  was  when  he  should  gain  his  spurs  of  gold 
From  royal  hands,  who  wooed  the  knightly  state ; 

The  knell  of  old  formalities  is  tolled, 

And  the  world's  knights  are  now  self-consecrate. 

No  grander  episode  doth  chivalry  hold 
In  all  its  annals,  back  to  Charlemagne, 
Than  that  lone  vigil  of  unceasing  pain, 

Faithfully  kept  through  hunger  and  through  cold, 
By  the  good  Christian  knight,  Elisha  Kane  ! 

Fitz-James  O'Brien. 


THE    OLD    ADMIRAL. 

ADMIRAL   STEWART,  U.  S.  N. 

Gone  at  last, 

That  brave  old  hero  of  the  past  1 
His  spirit  has  a  second  birth, 

An  unknown,  grander  life  ; 


All  of  him  that  was  earth 

Lies  mute  and  cold, 

Like  a  wrinkled  sheath  and  old 
Thrown  off  forever  from  the  shimmering  blade 
That  has  good  entrance  made 

Upon  some  distant,  glorious  strife. 

From  another  generation, 

A  simpler  age,  to  ours  Old  Ironsides  came  ; 
The  morn  and  noontide  of  the  nation 

Alike  he  knew,  nor  yet  outlived  his  fame,  — 
0,  not  outlived  his  fame  ! 
The  dauntless  men  whose  service  guards  our  shore 

Lengthen  still  their  glory-roll 

With  his  name  to  lead  the  scroll, 
As  a  flagship  at  her  fore 

Carries  the  Union,  with  its  azure  and  the  stars, 
Symbol  of  times  that  are  no  more 

And  the  old  heroic  wars. 

He  was  the  one 

Whom  Death  had  spared  alone 

Of  all  the  captains  of  that  lusty  age, 
Who  sought  the  foeman  where  he  lay, 
On  sea  or  sheltering  bay, 

Nor  till  the  prize  was  theirs  repressed  their 
rage. 
They  are  gone,  —  all  gone  : 

They  rest  with  glory  and  the  undying  Powers  ; 

Only  their  name  and  fame,  and  what  they  saved, 
are  ours  ! 

It  was  fifty  years  ago, 

Upon  the  Gallic  Sea, 

He  bore  the  banner  of  the  free, 
And  fought  the  fight  whereof  our  children  know, — 

The  deathful,  desperate  fight  ! 

Under  the  fair  moon's  light 
The  frigate  squared,  and  yawed  to  left  and  right. 

Every  broadside  swept  to  death  a  score  ! 
Roundly  played  her  guns  and  well,  till  their  fiery 
ensigns  fell, 

Neither  foe  replying  more. 
All  in  silence,  when  the  night-breeze  cleared  the 
air, 

Old  Ironsides  rested  there, 
Locked  in  between  the  twain,  and  drenched  with 
blood. 

Then  homeward,  like  an  eagle  with  her  prey  1 

0,  it  was  a  gallant  fray,  — 

That  fight  in  Biscay  Bay  ! 
Fearless  the  captain  stood,  in  his  youthful  hardi- 
hood : 

He  was  the  boldest  of  them  all, 

Our  brave  old  Admiral ! 


And  still  our  heroes  bleed, 
Taught  by  that  olden  deed. 


& 


-J3 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


717 


ft 


Whether  of  iron  or  of  oak 
The  ships  we  marshal  at  our  country's  need, 

Still  speak  their  cannon  now  as  then  they  spoke ; 
Still  floats  our  unstruck  banner  from  the  mast 

As  in  the  stormy  past. 

Lay  him  in  the  ground  : 

Let  him  rest  where  the  ancient  river  rolls  ; 
Let  him  sleep  beneath  the  shadow  and  the  sound 

Of  the  bell  whose  proclamation,  as  it  tolls, 
Is  of  Freedom  and  the  gift  our  fathers  gave. 

Lay  him  gently  down  : 

The  clamor  of  the  town 
Will  not  break  the  slumbers  deep,  the  beautiful 
ripe  sleep, 

Of  this  lion  of  the  wave, 

Will  not  trouble  the  old  Admiral  in  his  grave. 

Earth  to  earth  his  dust  is  laid. 
Methinks  his  stately  shade 

On  the  shadow  of  a  great  ship  leaves  the  shore  ; 
Over  cloudless  western  seas 
Seeks  the  far  Hespei'ides, 

The  islands  of  the  blest, 
Where  no  turbulent  billows  roar,  — 

Where  is  rest. 
His  ghost  upon  the  shadowy  quarter  stands 
Nearing  the  deathless  lands. 

There  all  his  martial  mates,  renewed  and  strong, 

Await  his  coming  long. 

I  see  the  happy  Heroes  rise 

With  gratulation  in  their  eyes  : 
"Welcome,  old  comrade,"  Lawrence  cries  ; 
"Ah,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars  ! 
Who  win  the  glory  and  the  scars  ? 

How  floats  the  skyey  flag,  —  how  many  stars  ? 

Still  speak  they  of  Decatur's  name, 

Of  Bainbridge's  and  Perry's  fame  ? 

Of  me,  who  earliest  came  ? 

Make  ready,  all  : 

Room  for  the  Admiral  ! 

Come,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars  !  " 

Edmund  clarence  Stedman. 


One  the  grisly  King  of  Terrors  ;  one  a  Bourbon, 

with  his  errors,  late  to  conscience-clearing 

set. 
Well  his  fevered  pulse  may  flutter,  and  the  priests 

their  mass  may  mutter  with  such  fervor 

as  they  may : 
Cross  and  chrysm,  and  genuflection,  mop  and 

mow,  and  interjection,  will  not  frighten 

Death  away. 
By  the  dying  despot  sitting,  at  the  hard  heart's 

portals  hitting,  shocking  the  dull  brain 

to  work, 
Death  makes  clear  what  life  has  hidden,  chides 

what  life  has  left  unchidden,   quickens 

truth  life  tried  to  burke. 
He  but   ruled   within   his   borders   after   Holy 

Church's  orders,  did  what  Austria  bade 

him  do  ; 
By  their  guidance  flogged  and  tortured  ;  high- 
born men  and  gently  nurtured  chained 

with  crime's  felonious  crew. 
What  if  summer  fevers  gripped  them,  what  if 

winter  freezings   nipped  them,  till  they 

rotted  in  their  chains  ? 
He  had  word  of  Pope  and  Kaiser  ;  none  could 

holier  be  or  wiser  ;  theirs  the  counsel,  his 

the  reins. 
So  he  pleads  excuses  eager,  clutching,  with  his 

fingers  meagre,  at   the   bedclothes  as  he 

speaks  ; 
But  King  Death   sits  grimly  grinning  at  the 

Bourbon's  cobweb-spinning,  — aseach  cob- 
web-cable breaks. 
And  the  poor  soul,  from  life's  eylot,  rudderless, 

without  a  pilot,  drifteth  slowly  down  the 

dark  ; 
While  'mid  rolling  incense  vapor,  chanted  dirge, 

and  flaring  taper,  lies  the  body,  stiff  and 

stark.  punch. 


'DEATH-BED   OF   BOMB  A,    KING   OF 
NAPLES,    AT    BARI.     1859. 

Could  I  pass  those  lounging  sentries,  through 
the  aloe-bordered  entries,  up  the  sweep  of 

Squalid  stair, 
On  through  chamber  after  chamber,  where  the 

sun  In  .  I  and  amber  turn  decay  to 

beauty  i 
I  should  reach  a  guarded  portal,  where  for  strife 

of  issue  mortal,  face  to  face  two  kings  are 

met,  — 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN   MOORE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning  ; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  inclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


C& 


W 


'18 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


ft 


Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er 
his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  spirit  that 's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 

But  little  he  '11  reek,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him  ! 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  ! 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 


ZIMRI. 


GEORGE   VILLIERS,    DUKE   OF   BUCKINGHAM.      l682. 

Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land  ; 
In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand  ; 
A  man  so  various,  that  he  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome  : 
Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong  ; 
Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long  ; 
But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon, 
Was  chymist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon  ; 
Then  all  tor  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ, 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy  ! 
Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes  ; 
And  both,  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes  : 
So  over-violent  or  over-civil, 
That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or  Devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art ; 
Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert. 
Beggared  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too  late  ; 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 
He  laughed  himself  from  court,  then  sought  relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief ; 
For,  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Absalom,  and  wise  Achitophel. 
Thus,  wicked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft, 
He  left  no  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 

John  Dryden. 


WHITEFIELD. 


FROM    "HOPE. 


Lettconomtjs  (beneath  well-sounding  Greek 
I  slur  a  name  a  poet  may  not  speak) 
Stood  pilloried  on  infamy's  high  stage, 
And  bore  the  pelting  storm  of  half  an  age  ; 
The  very  butt  of  slander,  and  the  blot 
For  every  dart  that  malice  ever  shot. 
The  man  that  mentioned  him  at  once  dismissed 
All  mercy  from  his  lips,  and  sneered  and  hissed  ; 
His  crimes  were  such  as  Sodom  never  knew, 
And  perjury  stood  up  to  swear  all  true  ; 
His  aim  was  mischief,  and  his  zeal  pretence, 
His  speech  rebellion  against  common  sense  ; 
A  knave,  when  tried  on  honesty's  plain  rule, 
And  when  by  that  of  reason,  a  mere  fool ; 
The  world's  best  comfort  was,  his  doom  was  past; 
Die  when  he  might,  he  must  be  damned  at  last. 

Now,  truth,  perform  thine  office  ;  waft  aside 
The  curtain  drawn  by  prejudice  and  pride, 
Reveal  (the  man  is  dead)  to  wondering  eyes 
This  more  than  monster  in  his  proper  guise. 

He  loved  the  world  that  hated  him  ;  the  tear 
That  dropped  upon  his  Bible  was  sincere  ; 
Assailed  by  scandal  and  the  tongue  of  strife, 
His  only  answer  was  a  blameless  life  ; 
And  he  that  forged  and  he  that  threw  the  (fart 
Had  each  a  brother's  interest  in  his  heart. 
Paul's  love  of  Christ  and  steadiness  unbribed 
Were  copied  close  in  him,  and  well  transcribed. 
He  followed  Paul ;  his  zeal  a  kindred  flame, 
His  apostolic  charity  the  same. 
Like  him  crossed  cheerfully  tempestuous  seas, 
Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  ease  j 
Like  him  he  labored,  and  like  him,  content 
To  bear  it,  suffered  shame  where'er  he  went. 
Blush,  Calumny  !  and  write  upon  his  tomb, 
If  honest  Eulogy  can  spare  thee  room, 
Thy  deep  repentance  of  thy  thousand  lies, 
Which,  aimed  at  him,  has  pierced  the  offended 

skies  ; 
And  say,  Blot  out  my  sin,  confessed,  deplored, 
Against  thine  image  in  thy  saint,  0  Lord  ! 

William  Cowper. 


SOUTHEY. 

FROM    "  THE   VISION    OF   JUDGMENT." 

He  said  (I  only  give  the  heads),  —  he  said 
He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbling ;  't  was  his 
way 
Upon  all  topics  ;  't  was,  besides,  his  bread, 
Of  which  he  buttered  both  sides ;   't  would 
delay 
Too  long  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased  to  dread), 
And  take  up  rather  more  time  than  a  day, 


t± 


-& 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


719 


a 


To  name  his  works,  —  he  would  but  cite  a  few,  — 
"Wat   Tyler,"—  "Rhymes   on  Blenheim,"  — 
"Waterloo." 

He  had  written  praises  of  a  regicide  ; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever  ; 
He  had  written  for  republics  far  and  wide, 

And  then  against  them  bitterer  than  ever  ; 
Fur  pantisoeracy  he  once  had  cried 

Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  't  was  clever  ; 
Then  grew  a  hearty  anti-jacobin,  — 
Had  turned  his  coat,  —  and  would  have  turned 
his  skin. 

He  had  sung  against  all  battles,  and  again 
In  their  high  praise  and  glory  ;  he  had  called 

Reviewing  "  the  ungentle  craft,"  and  then 
Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  crawled,  — 

Fed,  paid,  and  pampered  by  the  very  men 
Bywhom  hismuseand  morals  had  been  mauled ; 

He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker 
prose, 

And  more  of  both  than  anybody  knows. 

Byron. 


SPORUS,  —  LORD   HERVEY. 

FROM    THE    "  PROLOGUE   TO   THE   SATIRES." 

Let  Sporus  tremble.  —  A.  What  ?  that  thing 
of  silk, 
Sporus,  that  mere  white  curd  of  asses'  milk  ? 
Satire  of  sense,  alas  !  can  Sporus  feel  ? 
Who  breaks  a  butterfly  upon  a  wheel? 

P.  Ye1  let  me  flap  this  bug  with  gilded  wings, 
Tins  painted  child  of  dirt  that  stinks  and  stings  ; 
Whose  lmzz  the  witty  and  the  fair  annoys, 
Yet  wit  ne'er  tastes,  and  beauty  ne'er  enjoys  : 
So  well-bred  spaniels  civilly  delight 
In  mumbling  of  the  game  they  <lare  not  bite. 
Eternal  smiles  his  emptiness  betray, 
As  shallow  streams  run  dimpling  all  the  way. 
Whether  in  florid  impotence  he  speaks, 
Ami.  as  the  prompter  breathes,  the  puppet  squeaks, 
Or  ai  iln'  ear  of  Eve,  familiar  toad, 
Half  froth,  hull' venom,  spits  himself  abroad, 
In  puns,  or  politics,  or  tales,  or  lies, 
Or  spite,  or  smut,  or  rhymes,  or  blasphemies; 
Hi-  wit  nil  seesaw,  between  that  and  this. 
Now  high,  now  low,  now  master  up,  now  miss, 

And  he  himself  one  vile  antithesis. 

Amphibious  thing  !  that,  aeting  either  part, 
Tie'  trifling  head,  or  the  corrupted  heart, 
Fop  al  the  toilet,  flatterer  at  the  hoard, 
Now  trips  a  lady,  and  now  struts  a  lord. 
Eve's  tempter  thus  the  rabbins  have  exprest, 
A  cherub's  face,  a  reptile  all  the  rest; 
Beauty  that  shocks  you,  parts  that  none  will  trust, 
Wit  that  can  creep,  and  pride  that  licks  the  dust. 

A  I  I  XANDER   POPB. 


OG. 

SHADWELL,    THE    DRAMATIST. 

Now  stop  your  noses,  readers,  all  and  some, 
For  here 's  a  tun  of  midnight  work  to  come. 
Og,  from  a  treason-tavern  rolling  home 
Round  as  a  globe,  and  liquored  every  chink, 
Goodly  and  great  he  sails  behind  his  link  : 
With  all  this  bulk  there  's  nothing  lost  in  Og, 
For  every  inch  that  is  not  fool  is  rogue  ; 
A  monstrous  mass  of  foul,  corrupted  matter, 
As  all  the  devils  had  spewed  to  make  the  batter. 

The  midwife  laid  her  hand  on  his  thick  skull, 
With  this  prophetic  blessing,  —  "Be  thou  dull  ; 
Drink,  swear,  and  roar,  forbear  no  lewd  delight 
Fit  for  thy  bulk  ;  do  anything  but  write  : 
Thou  art  of  lasting  make,  like  thoughtless  men  ; 
A  strong  nativity  —  but  for  the  pen  ! 
Eat  opium,  mingle  arsenic  in  thy  drink, 
Still  thou  mayst  live,  avoiding  pen  and  ink  "  : 
I  see,  I  see,  't  is  counsel  given  in  vain, 
For  treason  botched  in  rhyme  will  he  thy  bane  ; 
Rhyme  is  the  rock  on  which  thou  art  to  wreck, 
'T  is  fatal  to  thy  fame  and  to  thy  neck  ; 
Why  should  thy  metre  good  King  David  blast  ? 
A  psalm  of  his  will  surely  be  thy  last. 
A  double  noose  thou  on  thy  neck  dost  pull 
for  writing  treason  and  for  writing  dull. 
To  die  for  faction  is  a  common  evil, 
But  to  be  hanged  for  nonsense  is  the  devil. 

JOHN   DRVDEN. 


ODE   TO   RAE   WILSON,    ESQUIRE. 

A  wanderer,  Wilson,  from  my  native  land, 
Remote,  0  Rae,  from  godliness  and  thee, 
Where  rolls  between  us  the  eternal  sea, 
Besides  some  furlongs  of  a  foreign  sand,  — 
Beyond  the  broadest  Scotch  of  London  Wall, 
Beyond  the  loudest  Saint  that  has  a  call, 
Aeross  the  wavy  waste  between  us  stretched, 
A  friendly  missive  warns  me  of  a  stricture. 
Wherein  my  likeness  you  have  darkly  etched  ; 
And  though  I  have  not  semi  the  shadow  sketched, 
Thus  I  remark  prophetic  on  the  picture. 

I  guess  the  features  :  — in  a  line  to  paint 

Their  moral  ugliness,  I  'm  not  a  saint. 

Not  one  of  those  self-constituted  saints, 

Quacks       not  physicians  —  in  the  cure  of  souls, 

Censors  who  sniff OUt  moral  taints, 

And  call  the  devil  over  his  own  coals,  — 

Those  pseudo  Privy-Councillors  of  God, 

Who    write  down  judgments  with  a  pen  hard- 
nibbed  ; 
Ushers  of  Beelzebub's  Black  Rod, 
Commending  sinners  not  to  ice  thick-ribbed, 

But  endless  Uames,  to  6Corch  them  like  flax,  — 


<&-■ 


~ff 


720 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


^ 


Yet  sun1  of  heaven  themselves,  as  ifthey'd  cribbed 
The  impression  of  St.  Peter's  keys  in  wax  ! 

Of  such  a  character  no  single  trace 
Exists,  I  know,  in  my  fictitious  face. 
There  wants  a  certain  cast  about  the  eye  ; 
A  certain  lifting  of  the  nose's  tip  ; 
A  certain  curling  of  the  nether  lip, 
"  In  scorn  of  ali  that  is,  beneath  the  sky  ; 
In  brief,  it  is  an  aspect  deleterious, 
A  face  decidedly  not  serious, 
.V  face  profane,  that  would  not  do  at  all 
To  make  a  face  at  Exeter  Hall,  — 
That  Hall  where  bigots  rant  and  cant  and  pray, 
And  laud  each  other  face  to  face, 
Till  every  farthing-candle  ray 
Conceives  itself  a  great  gaslight  of  grace  ! 

Well  !  —  be  the  graceless  lineaments  confest  ! 
I  do  enjoy  this  bounteous  beauteous  earth  ; 

And  dote  upon  a  jest 
"  Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth  "  ;  — 
No  solemn  sanctimonious  face  I  pull, 
Nor  think  I  'm  pious  when  I  'm  only  bilious,  — 
Nor  study  in  my  sanctum  supercilious 
To  frame  a  Sabbath  Bill  or  forge  a  Bull. 
I  pray  for  grace,  —  repent  each  sinful  act,  — 
Peruse,  but  underneath  the  rose,  my  Bible  ; 
And  love  my  neighbor  far  too  well,  in  fact, 
To  call  and  twit  him  with  a  godly  tract 
That 's  turned  by  application  to  a  libel. 
My  heart  ferments  not  with  the  bigot's  leaven, 
All  creeds  I  view  with  toleration  thorough. 
And  have  a  horror  of  regarding  heaven 

As  anybody's  rotten  borough. 

I  've  no  ambition  to  enact  the  spy 

On  fellow-souls,  a  spiritual  Pry,  — 

'T  is  said  that  people  ought  to  guard  their  noses 

Who  thrust  them  into  matters  none  of  theirs  ; 

And,  though  no  delicacy  discomposes 

Your  saint,  yet  I  consider  faith  and  prayers 

Amongst  the  privatest  of  men's  affairs. 

I  do  not  hash  the  Gospel  in  my  books, 
And  thus  upon  the  public  mind  intrude  it, 
As  if  I  thought,  like  Otaheitan  cooks, 
No  food  was  fit  to  eat  till  I  had  chewed  it. 

On  Bible  stilts  I  don't  affect  to  stalk  ; 

Nor  lard  with  Scripture  my  familiar  talk,  — 

For  man  may  pious  texts  repent, 
And  yet  religion  have  no  inward  scat  ; 
T  is  not  so  plain  as  the  old  Hill  of  Howth, 
A  man  has  got  his  belly  full  of  meat 
Because  he  talks  with  victuals  in  his  mouth  1 

I  honestly  confess  that  I  would  hinder 
The  Scottish  member's  legislative  rigs, 
That  spiritual  Pindar, 


Who  looks  on  erring  souls  as  straying  pigs, 
That  must  be  lashed  by  law,  wherever  found, 
And  driven  to  church  as  to  the  parish  pound. 
I  do  confess,  without  reserve  or  wheedle, 
I  view  that  grovelling  idea  as  one 
Worthy  some  parish  clerk's  ambitious  son, 
A  charity-boy  who  longs  to  be  a  beadle. 
On  such  a  vital  topic  sure  't  is  odd 
How  much  a  man  can  differ  from  his  neighbor  ; 
One  wishes  worship  freely  given  to  God, 
Another  wants  to  make  it  statute-labor,  — 
The  broad  distinction  in  a  line  to  draw, 
As  means  to  lead  us  to  the  skies  above, 
You  say,  —  Sir  Andrew  and  his  love  of  law, 
And  I,  —  the  Saviour  with  his  law  of  love. 

Spontaneously  to  God  should  tend  the  soul, 
Like  the  magnetic  needle  to  the  Pole  ; 
But  what  were  that  intrinsic  virtue  worth, 
Suppose  some  fellow,  with  more  zeal  than  knowl- 
edge 

Fresh  from  St.  Andrew's  college, 
Should  nail  the  conscious  needle  to  the  north  ? 
I  do  confess  that  I  abhor  and  shrink 
From  schemes,  with  a  religious  willy-nilly, 
That  frown  upon  St.  Giles's  sins,  but  blink 
The  peccadilloes  of  all  Piccadilly,  — 
My  soul  revolts  at  such  bare  hypocrisy, 
And  will  not,  dare  not,  fancy  in  accord 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  with  an  exclusive  lord 

Of  this  world's  aristocracy. 
It  will  not  own  a  notion  so  unholy 
As  thinking  that  the  rich  by  easy  trips 
May  go  to  heaven,  whereas  the  poor  and  lowly 
Must  work  their  passage,  as  they  do  in  ships. 

One  place  there  is,  —  beneath  the  burial-sod, 
Where  all  mankind  are  equalized  by  death  ; 
Another  place  there  is,  — the  fane  of  God, 
Where  all  are  equal  who  draw  living  breath  ;  — 
Juggle  who  will  elsewhere  with  his  own  soul, 
Playing  the  Judas  with  a  temporal  dole, 
He  who  can  come  beneath  that  awful  cope, 
In  the  dread  presence  of  a  Maker  just, 
Who  metes  to  every  pinch  of  human  dust 
One  even  measure  of  immortal  hope,  — 
He  who  can  stand  within  that  holy  door, 
With  soul  unbowed  by  that  pure  spirit-level, 
And  frame  unequal  laws  for  rich  and  poor,  — 
Might  sit  for  Hell,  and  represent  the  Devil  ! 

The  humble  records  of  my  life  to  search, 
I  have  not  herded  with  mere  pagan  beasts  ; 
But  sometimes  1  have  "  sat  at  good  men's  feasts," 
And  I  have  been  "  where  bells  have  knolled  to 

church." 
Dear  bells  !  how  sweet  the  sounds  of  village  bells 
When  on  the  undulating  air  they  swim  ! 
Now  loud  as  welcomes  !  faint,  now,  as  farewells ! 


L- 


■ff 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


721 


■a 


And  trembling  all  aliout  the  breezy  dells, 

As  fluttered  by  the  wings  of  cherubim. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  are  chanting  a  low  hymn  ; 

And,  lost  to  sight,  the  ecstatic  lark  above 

Sings,  like  a  soul  beatified,  of  love, 

With,  now  and  then,  the  coo  of  the  wildpigeon ;  — 

0  pagans,  heathens,  infidels,  and  doubters  ! 

If  such  sweet  sounds  can't  woo  you  to  religion, 
"Will  the  harsh  voices  of  church  cads  and  touters  ? 

A  man  may  cry  Church  !  Church  !  at  every  wrord, 
With  no  more  piety  than  other  people,  — 
A  daw  's  not  reckoned  a  religious  bird 
Because  it  keeps  a-cawing  from  a  steeple  ; 
The  Temple  is  a  good,  a  holy  place, 
But  quacking  only  gives  it  an  ill  savor, 
"While  saintly  mountebanks  the  porch  disgrace, 
And  bring  religion's  self  into  disfavor  ! 

Church  is  "a  little  heaven  below, 

I  have  been  there  and  still  would  go,"  — 

Yet  I  am  none  of  those  who  think  it  odd 

A  man  can  pray  unbidden  from  the  cassock, 
And,  passing  by  the  customary  hassock, 

Kneel  down  remote  upon  the  simple  sod, 

And  sue  in  forma  pauperis  to  God. 

As  for  the  rest,  —  intolerant  to  none, 
Whatever  shape  the  pious  rite  may  bear, 
Even  the  poor  pagan's  homage  to  the  sun 

1  would  not  harshly  scorn,  lest  even  there 

I  spurned  some  elements  of  Christian  prayer,  — 
An  aim,  though  erring,  at  a  "world  ayont,"  — 
Acknowledgment  of  good,  — of  man's  futility, 
A  sense  of  need,  and  weakness,  and  indeed 
That  very  thing  so  many  Christians  want,  — 

Humility. 

I  have  ie,t  sought,  'tis  true,  the  Holy  Land, 
As  full  of  texts  as  Cuddie  Headrigg's  mother, 

The  Bible  in  one  hand, 
Ami  my  own  commonplace-book  in  the  other  ; 
But  you  have  been  to  Palestine  —  alas  ! 
Some  minds  improve  by  travel  ;  others,  rather, 

Resemble  copper  wire  or  bra    , 
Which  gets  the  narrower  by  going  farther  ! 

Wort]  h  pilgrimages  —  very! 

If  Palmers  al  the  Holy  Tomb  contrive 
Tie'  human  heat  -  anil  rancor  to  revive 

at  the  Sepulchre  they  oughl  to  bury. 
A    orry  sight  it  is  to  resl  the  rye  on, 
T  i    ei  a  Chri  tian  creal  are  graze  at  Sion, 
Then  homeward,  of  tie'  saintly  pasture  full, 
Rush  bellowing,  and  breathing  fire  and  smoke, 
At  crippled  Papistry  to  butt  and  poke, 

Exactly  a.  a  Skittish  Scottish  bull 

Hunts  an  old  woman  in  a  scarlet  cloke. 


Gifted  with  noble  tendency  to  climb, 
Yet  weak  at  the  same  time, 
Faith  is  a  kind  of  parasitic  plant, 
That  grasps  the  nearest  stem  with  tendril-rings  ; 
And  as  the  climate  and  the  soil  may  grant. 
So  is  the  sort  of  tree  to  which  it  clings. 
Consider,  then,  before,  like  Hurlothrumbo, 
You  aim  your  club  at  any  creed  on  earth, 
That,  by  the  simple  accident  of  birth, 
You  might  have  been  High-Priest  to  Mumbo 
Jumbo. 

For  me,  —  through  heathen  ignorance  perchance, 

Not  having  knelt  in  Palestine,  —  I  feel 

None  of  that  griffinish  excess  of  zeal 

Some  travellers  would  blaze  with  here  in  France. 

Dolls  I  can  see  in  Virgin-like  array, 

Nor  for  a  scuffle  with  the  idols  hanker 

Like  crazy  Quixotte  at  the  puppet's  play, 

If  their  "offence  be  rank,  "should  mine  be  rancor! 

Suppose  the  tender  but  luxuriant  hop 
Around  a  cankered  stem  should  twine, 
What  Kentish  boor  would  tear  away  the  prop 
So  roughly  as  to  wound,  nay,  kill  the  bine  ? 

The  images,  't  is  true,  are  strangely  dressed, 
"With  gauds  and  toys  extremely  out  of  season  ; 
The  carving  nothing  of  the  very  best, 
The  whole  repugnant  to  the  eye  of  Reason, 
Shocking  to  Taste,  and  to  Fine  Arts  a  treason,  — 
Yet  ne'er  o'erlook  in  bigotry  of  sect 
One  truly  Catholic,  one  common  form, 

At  which  unchecked 
All  Christian  hearts  may  kindle  or  keep  warm. 

Say,  was  it  to  my  spirit's  gain  or  loss, 

One  bright  and  balmy  morning,  as  I  went 

From  Liege's  lovely  environs  to  Ghent, 

If  hard  by  the  wayside  I  found  a  cross, 

That  made  me  breathe  a  prayer  upon  the  spot,  — 

While  Nature  of  herself,  as  if  to  trace 

The  embl  m's  use,  hail  trailed  around  its  base 

The  blue  significant  Forget-Me-Not  ? 

Meth ought,  the  claims  of  Chanty  to  urge 

More  forcibly  along  with  Faith  and  Hope, 

The  pious  choice  had  pitched  upon  the  verge 

Of  a  delicious  slope, 
Giving  the  eye  much  variegated  scope  !  — 
"Look  round,"  it  whispered,  "on  that  prospect 

rare, 
Tho  e  vales  so  verdant,  and  those  hills  so  blue  ; 
Enjoy  the  sunny  world,  so  fresh  and  fair, 
But"  (how  the  simple  legend  pierced  me  through !) 

"Pbiez  potjb  les  Malheuretjx." 

With  sweet  kind  natures,  as  in  honeyed  cells, 
Religion  lives,  and  feels  herself  at  home  ; 


S3 


'22 


PERSONAL   POEMS. 


ft 


But  only  on  a  formal  visit  dwells 

"Where  wasps  instead  of  bees  have  formed  the 

comb. 
Shun  pride,  0  Eae  !  —  whatever  sort  beside 
You  take  in  lieu,  shun  spiritual  pride  ! 
A  pride  there  is  of  rank,  —  a  pride  of  birth, 
A  pride  of  learning,  and  a  pride  of  purse, 
A  London  pride,  —  in  short,  there  bj  on  earth 
A  host  of  prides,  some  better  and  some  worse  ; 
But  of  all  prides,  since  Lucifer's  attaint, 
The  proudest  swell's  a  self-elected  Saint. 

To  picture  that  cold  pride  so  harsh  and  hard, 
Fancy  a  peacock  in  a  poultry- yard. 
Behold  him  in  conceited  circles  sail, 
Strutting  and  dancing,  and  now  planted  stiff, 
In  all  his  pomp  of  pageantry,  as  if 
He  felt  "the  eyes  of  Europe  "  on  his  tail ! 
As  for  the  humble  breed  retained  by  man, 
He  scorns  the  whole  domestic  clan,  — 

He  bows,  he  bridles, 

He  wheels,  he  sidles, 
As  last,  with  stately  dodgings  in  a  corner, 
He  pens  a  simple  russet  hen,  to  scorn  her 
Full  in  the  blaze  of  his  resplendent  fan  ! 

"  Look  here,"  he  cries,  (to  give  him  words,) 
' '  Thou  feathered  clay,  thou  scum  of  birds ! "  — 
Flirting  the  rustling  plumage  in  her  eyes,  — 
"  Look  here,  thou  vile  predestined  sinner, 
Doomed  to  be  roasted  for  a  dinner, 
Behold  these  lovely  variegated  dyes  ! 
These  are  the  rainbow  colors  of  the  skies, 
That  heaven  has  shed  upon  me  con  arnore,  — 
A  Bird  of  Paradise  ?  —  a  pretty  story  ! 
Jam  that  Saintly  Fowl,  thou  paltry  chick  ! 

Look  at  my  crown  of  glory  ! 
Thou  dingy,  dirty,  dabbled,  draggled  jill  !  " 
And  off  goes  Partlett,  wriggling  from  a  kick, 
With  bleeding  scalp  laid  open  by  his  bill ! 

That  little  simile  exactly  paints 

How  sinners  are  despised  by  saints. 

By  saints  !  —  the  Hypocrites  that  ope  heaven's 

door 
Obsequious  to  the  sinful  man  of  riches  ; 
But  put  the  wicked,  naked,  barelegged  poor 
In  parish  stocks,  instead  of  breeches. 

Thrice  blessed,  rather,  is  the  man  with  whom 
The  gracious  prodigality  of  nature, 
The  balm,  the  bliss,  the  beauty,  and  the  bloom, 
The  bounteous  pi o violence  in  every  feature, 
Recall  the  good  Creator  to  his  creature, 
Making  all  earth  a  fane,  all  heaven  its  dome  ! 


To  his  tuned  spirit  the  wild  heather-bells 

Ring  Sabbath  knells  ; 
The  jubilate  of  the  soaring  lark 

Is  chant  of  clerk  ; 
For  choir,  the  thrush  and  the  gregarious  linnet ; 
The  sod 's  a  cushion  for  his  pious  want ; 
And,  consecrated  by  the  heaven  within  it, 
The  sky-blue  pool,  a  font. 
Each  cloud-capped  mountain  is  a  holy  altar  ; 

An  organ  breathes  in  every  grove  ; 

And  the  full  heart 's  a  Psalter, 
Rich  in  deep  hymns  of  gratitude  and  love  ! 

Once  on  a  time  a  certain  English  lass 

"Was  seized  with  symptoms  of  such  deep  decline, 

Cough,  hectic  flushes,  every  evil  sign, 

That,  as  their  wont  is  at  such  desperate  pass, 

The  doctors  gave  her  over —  to  an  ass. 

Accordingly,  the  grisly  Shade  to  bilk, 
Each  morn  the  patient  quaffed  a  frothy  bowl 

Of  asinine  new  milk, 
Robbing  a  shaggy  suckling  of  a  foal, 
"Which  got  proportionably  spare  and  skinny  ; 
Meanwhile   the   neighbors   cried,    "  Poor  Mary 

Ann  ! 
She  can't  get  over  it  !  she  never  can  !  " 
"When,  lo  !  to  prove  each  prophet  was  a  ninny, 
The  one  that  died  was  the  poor  wet-nurse  Jenny. 

To  aggravate  the  case, 
There  were  but  two  grown  donkeys  in  the  place  ; 
And,  most  unluckily  for  Eve's  sick  daughter, 
The  other  long-eared  creature  was  a  male, 
"Who  never  in  his  life  had  given  a  pail 

Of  milk,  or  even  chalk-and-water. 
No  matter  :  at  the  usual  hour  of  eight 
Down  trots  a  donkey  to  the  wicket-gate, 
With  Mister  Simon  Gubbins  on  his  back  :  — 
"Your    sarvant,    miss,  —  a      werry   springlike 

day,  — 
Bad  time  for  hasses,  though  !  good  lack  !  good 

lack  ! 
Jenny  be   dead,   miss,  —  but   I  'ze  brought  ye 

Jack, — 
He  does  n't  give  no  milk,  — but  he  can  bray." 

So  runs  the  story, 
And,  in  vain  self-glory, 
Some  Saints  would  sneer  at  Gubbins  for  his  blind- 
ness ; 
But  what  the  better  are  their  pious  saws 
To  ailing  souls,  than  dry  hee-haws, 
Without  the  milk  of  human  kindness  ? 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


t& 


-ft 


& 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS. 

Where,  0,  where  are  the  visions  of  morning, 

Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime  ? 
Gone,  like  tenants  that  quit  without  warning, 

Down  the  back  entry  of  time. 

Where,  0,  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  golden  dawn's  smile  ? 

Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses, 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where  are  the  Marys,  and  Anns,  and  Elizas, 

Loving  and  lovely  of  yore  ? 
Look  in  the  columns  of  old  Advertisers,  — 

Married  and  dead  by  the  score- 
Where  the  gray  colts  and  the  ten-year-old  fillies, 

Saturday's  triumph  and  joj  '. 
Gone  like  our  friend  wodas  <1>kvs  Achilles, 

Homer's  ferocious  old  boy. 

Die-away  dreams  of  ecstatic  emotion, 

Hopes  like  young  eagles  al  play, 
Vows  of  unheard-of  and  endless  devotion, 

How  ye  have  faded  away  ! 

Yet,  though  the  ebbing  of  Time's  mighty  river 

Leave  our  young  blossoms  to  die, 

Let  him  roll  smooth  in  his  current  forever, 

Till  the  last  pebble  is  dry. 

olivkk  Wendell  holmes. 


And  thence  I  date  my  contempt  for  Asses, 
And  my  deep  respect  for  the  Devil's  Tail  ! 


METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

RnsA!  iN-n.  Look  here  what  I  (bund  en  .-\  palm-tree:  I  was 
never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras' time,  thai  1  was  an  Irish 
rat,  «  mber.  —  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Idisi  iHCTLYremember(andwhodare8doubt  me?) 
Having  been  (now,  I  care  no!  who  believes  !) 

An  ape  with  a  forest  around  about  me, — 
I', odigious  trees  and  enormous  leaves, 

Great  bulks  of  Mowers,  gigantic  grasses, 
Boughs  that  bent  not  to  any  gale  ; 


ii. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  exquisite  feeling 

Of  elevation,  sans  thought,  sans  care, 
When  I  twisted  my  tail  round  the  wood's  bough 
ceiling, 

And  swung,  meditatively,  in  the  air.  — 
There  's  an  advantage  !  —  Fairer  shapes  can 

Aspire,  yearn  upward,  tremble  and  glow, 
But,  by  means  of  their  posteriority,  apes  can 

Look  down  on  aspirants  that  walk  below  ! 

in. 
There  was  a  life  for  a  calm  philosopher, 

Self-supplied   with    jacket  and   trousers  and 
socks, 
Nothing  to  learn,  no  hopes  to  get  cross  over, 

A  head  that  resisted  the  hardest  knocks, 
Liquor  and  meat  in  serene  fruition, 

A  random  income  from  taxes  free, 
No  cares  at  all,  and  but  one  ambition,  — 

To  swing  by  the  Tail  to  the  bough  of  a  tree  ! 

IV. 

Whence  I  firmly  believe,  to  the  consternation 

Of  puppies  who  think  monkeyosophy  sin, 
In  gradual  human  degeneration 

And  a  general  apely  origin. 
Why,  tin'  simple  truth  's  in  a  nutshell  or  thimble, 

Though  it  rouses  the  monkey  in  ignorant  elves  ; 
And  the  Devil's  Tail  is  a  delicate  symbol 

Of  apehood  predominant  still  in  ourselves. 


Pure  class  government,  family  glory, 
Were  the  delights  of  that  happy  lot; 

My  politics  were  serenely  Tory, 

And  I  claimed  old  descent  from  Heaven  knows 
what  : 

Whence   I   boast  extraction  loftier,   nobler, 

Than  the  beggarly  Poets  one  often  n ts, 

A  boast  1  am  happy  to  share  with  the  cobbler 
Who  whisked  his  Tail  out,  —  to  whip  John 

Keat.S. 


& 


r& 


726 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


VI. 

There  was  a  life,  I  assever  !     With  reasons 

That  lead  me  to  scorn  every  star-gazing  Ass  ; 
Ami  because  1  loved  it,  at  certain  seasons 

'T  is  a  pleasure  to  gaze  in  the  looking-glass. 
When  the  bright  sun  beckons  the  spring,  green- 
deck  t,  up, 

The  Ape  swells  within  me  ;  whenever  1  see 
Mortals  look  skyward,  walking  erect  up, 

I  long  tor  a  Tail  and  a  large  strong  Tree  ! 

ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 


THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   GOTTINGEN. 

BY  ONE  ELEVEN  YEARS  IN  PRISON. 
SONG  BY  ROGERO   IN    "THE    ROVERS." 

Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 
This  dungeon  that  I  'm  rotting  in, 
I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[  IVeeps,  and  pulls  out  a  blue  kerchief,  with  which  he  wipes 
his  eyes  ;  gazing-  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds .'  1 

Sweet  kerchief,  checked  with  heavenly  blue, 
Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in  — 

Alas,  Matilda  then  was  true  ! 
At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U- 


niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 


Barbs  !  barbs  !  alas  !  how  swift  you  flew, 

Her  neat  post-wagon  trotting  in  ! 
Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view  ; 
Forlorn  I  languished  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

This  faded  form  !  this  pallid  hue  ! 

This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in  ! 
My  years  are  many,  —  they  were  few 
When  first  I  entered  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 


There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew, 

Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen  t 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  tu- 
tor, law-professor  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou,  vain  world,  adieu, 
That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in  ; 

Here  doomed  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
el, never  shall  I  see  the  U- 

niversity  of  Oottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 
George  Canning. 


THE  FRIEND  OF   HUMANITY  AND  THE 
KNIFE-GRINDER. 

FRIEND   OF   HUMANITY. 

Needy  knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road  ;  your  wheel  is  out  of  order. 
Bleak  blows  the  blast  ;  —  your  hat  has  got  a  hole 
in't; 
So  have  your  breeches  ! 

Weary  knife-grinder  !  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
road,  what  hard  work 't  is  crying  all  day  '  Knives 
and 
Scissors  to  grind  0  ! ' 

Tell  me,  knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to  grind 

knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 
Or  the  attorney  ? 

Was  it  the  squire  for  killing  of  his  game  ?  or 
Covetous  parson  for  his  tithes  distraining? 
Or  roguish  lawyer  made  you  lose  your  little 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 

(Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom 

Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story. 

KNIFE-GRINDER. 

Story  !  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir  ; 
Only,  last  night,  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

Constables  came  up  for  to. take  me  into 
Custody  ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice  ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish- 
stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor's  health  in 
A  pot  cf  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence  ; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir. 

FRIEND    OF   HUMANITY. 

I  give  thee  sixpence  !    I  will  see  thee  damned 

first,  — 
Wretch  !  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to 

vengeance,  — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 
Spiritless  outcast  ! 

[Kicks  the  knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel,  and  exit 

in  a  transport  of  republican  enthusiasm  and  universal 

philanthropy .] 

George  Canning. 


[&- 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


727 


ti 


THE   SENTIMENTAL   GARDENER. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF   JOHANN    MARTIN   MILLER. 

Once  there  was  a  gardener, 
Who  sang  all  day  a  dirge  to  his  poor  flowers  ; 

He  often  stooped  and  kissed  'em 

After  thunder-showers  : 
His   nerves   were  delicate,   though  fresh   air  is 
deemed  a  hardener 

Of  the  human  system. 

Many  a  moon  went  over, 
And  still  his  death-bell  tale  was  told  and  tolled,  — 

His  tears,  like  rain  in  winter, 

Dribbling  slow  and  cold  : 
Void  the  song  itself,  —  I  send  it  under  cover 

To  my  Leipsic  printer. 

' '  Weary,  I  am  weary  ! 
No  rest  from  raking  till  I  reach  my  goal ! 

Here,  like  a  tulip  trampled, 

Lose  I  heart  and  soul  ; 
Sure  such  a  death-in-life   as  mine,  so  dark,  so 
dreary, 

Must  be  unexampled. 

"Hence,  when  droughty  weather 
Has  dulled  the  spirits  of  my  violets, 

Medreams  I  feel  as  though  I 

Should  have  slight  regrets 
Were  they  and  I  just  then  to  droop  and  die  to- 
gether, 

Watched  and  wept  by  no  eye. 

"0  gazelle-eyed  Princess  ! 
Granddaughter  of  the  Sultan  of  Cathay  ! 
Tlic  knave  of  spades  beseeches 
Thee  by  night  and  day  : 

He  dies  to  lay  before  thee  samples  of  his  quinces, 
Apricots,  and  peaches  ! 

"  Questionless  thy  Highness 
Musi  wonder  why  I  piny  the  Absent  Man  ; 

Yel  if  I  pitch  my  lonely 

Tent  in  Frankistan, 
Attribute,  <>  full  moon  !  the  blame,  not  to  my 
shyness, 

Bui  tu  my  planet  only. 

"  Bui  enough  !  —  I  '11  smother 
My  gvoanings,       and  myself.     Were 'I  free 

Rix  baron,  or  a  Markgrai  e, 

1  would  fly  to  thee  ; 
But  since      alas,  my  stars  !  —  I'm  neither  one 
nor  t'other, 

Here  I  '11  dig      my  dark  grave." 

lation     i  JXMI  -  CLARENCE  MangaN. 


THE   COCKNEY. 

It  was  in  my  foreign  travel, 

At  a  famous  Flemish  inn, 
That  I  met  a  stoutish  person 

With  a  very  ruddy  skin  ; 
And  his  hair  was  something  sandy, 

And  was  done  in  knotty  curls, 
And  was  parted  in  the  middle, 

In  the  manner  of  a  girl's. 

He  was  clad  in  checkered  trousers, 

And  his  coat  was  of  a  sort 
To  suggest  a  scanty  pattern, 

It  was  bobbed  so  very  short ; 
And  his  cap  was  very  little, 

Such  as  soldiers  often  use  ; 
And  he  wore  a  pair  of  gaiters, 

And  extremely  heavy  shoes. 

I  addressed  the  man  in  English, 

And  he  answered  in  the  same, 
Though  he  spoke  it  in  a  fashion 

That  I  thought  a  little  lame  ; 
For  the  aspirate  was  missing 

Where  the  letter  should  have  been, 
But  where'er  it  was  n't  wanted, 

He  was  sure  to  put  it  in  ! 

When  I  spoke  with  admiration 

Of  St.  Peter's  mighty  dome, 
He  remarked  :    "  '  T  is  really  nothing 

To  the  sights  we  'ave  at  'ome  ! " 
And  declared  upon  his  honor,  — • 

Though,  of  course,  't  was  very  queer,  — 
That  he  doubted  if  the  Romans 

'Ad  the  7*art  of  making  beer  ! 

Then  we  talked  of  other  countries, 

And  he  said  that  he  had  heard 
That  //Americans  spoke  ^English, 

p.nt  he  deemed  it  quite  //absurd; 
Yet  he  felt  the  deepest  ^interest 

In  the  missionary  work, 
And  would  like  to  kiiow  if  Georgia 

Was  in  Boston  or  New  York  I 

When  I  left  the  man  in  gaiters, 
He  was  grumbling,  o'er  his  gin, 

At  ll harges  of  the  hostess 

Of  thai  famous  Flemish  inn  ; 

And  he  looked  :i  very  P.riton, 

iSo,  methinks,  I  see  him  still,) 

As  he  pocketed  tl andle 

That  was  mentioned  in  the  bill  ! 

J.  >HN   C.    SAXE. 


=& 


a 


TliS 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


THE   MODERN    BELLE. 

She  sits  in  a  fashionable  parlor, 

And  rocks  in  her  easy  chair  ; 
She  is  clad  in  silks  and  satins, 

And  jewels  are  in  her  hair  ; 
She  winks  and  giggles  and  simpers, 

And  simpers  and  giggles  and  winks  ; 
And  though  she  talks  but  little, 

'T  is  a  good  deal  more  than  she  thinks. 

She  lies  abed  in  the  morning 

Till  nearly  the  hour  of  noon, 
Then  conies  down  snapping  and  snarling 

Because  she  was  called  so  soon  ; 
Her  hair  is  still  in  papers, 

Her  cheeks  still  fresh  with  paint,  — 
Remains  of  her  last  night's  blushes, 

Before  she  intended  to  faint. 

She  dotes  upon  men  unshaven, 
And  men  with  "  flowing  hair  "  ; 

She  's  eloquent  over  mustaches, 
They  give  such  a  foreign  air. 

She  talks  of  Italian  music, 

And  falls  in  love  with  the  moon  ; 

And,  if  a  mouse  were  to  meet  her, 
1  She  would  sink  away  in  a  swoon. 

Her  feet  are  so  very  little, 

Her  hands  are  so  very  white, 
Her  jewels  so  very  heavy, 

And  her  head  so  very  light ; 
Her  color  is  made  of  cosmetics 

(Though  this  she  will  never  own), 
Her  body  is  made  mostly  of  cotton, 

Her  heart  is  made  wholly  of  stone. 

She  falls  in  love  with  a  fellow 
Who  swells  with  a  foreign  air  ; 

He  marries  her  for  her  money, 
She  marries  him  for  his  hair  ! 

One  of  the  very  best  matches,  — 
Both  are  well  mated  in  life  ; 

She  's  got  a  fool  for  a  husband, 

He  's  got  a  fool  for  a  wife  1 

Stark. 


HOW   IT  HAPPENED. 

FROM    "THE    KNIGHT   AND   THE    LADY." 

ADAM  and  Eve  were,  at  the  world's  beginning, 
Ashamed  of  nothing  till  they  took  to  sinning  ; 
But  after  Adam's  slip,  — the  first  was  Eve's,  — 

With  sorrow  big, 

They  sought  the  fig, 
To  cool  their  blushes  with  its  banging  leaves. 


WThereby  we  find 
That,  when  all  things  were  recent, 
(So  paradoxical  is  human  kind  !) 
Till  folksgrew  naughty,  they  were,  barely,  decent. 

Thus,  dress  may  date  its  origin 
From  sin  ; 
Which  proves,  beyond  the  shadow  of  dispute, 
How  many  owe  their  livelihoods  to  fruit ;  — 

For  fruit  caused  sin,  and  sin  brought  shame, 
And  all  through  shame  our  dresses  came, — 
With  that  sad  stopper  of  our  breath, 
Death  ! 

Now,  had  not  woman  worked  our  fall, 

How  many,  who  have  trades  and  avocations, 

Would  shut  up  shop,  in  these  our  polished  nations, 

And  have  no  business  to  transact  at  all  ! 

George  Colman. 


AMERICAN   ARISTOCRACY. 

Of  all  the  notable  things  on  earth, 
The  queerest  one  is  pride  of  birth 

Among  our  "  fierce  democracy  "  ! 
A  bridge  across  a  hundred  years, 
Without  a  prop  to  save  it  from  sneers, 
Not  even  a  couple  of  rotten  peers,  — 
A  thing  for  laughter,  fleers,  and  jeers, 

Is  American  aristocracy  ! 

English  and  Irish,  French  and  Spanish, 
Germans,  Italians,  Dutch  and  Danish, 
Crossing  their  veins  until  they  vanish 

In  one  conglomeration  ! 
So  subtle  a  tangle  of  blood,  indeed, 
No  Heraldry  Harvey  will  ever  succeed 

In  finding  the  circulation. 

Depend  upon  it,  my  snobbish  friend, 
Your  family  thread  you  can't  ascend, 
Without  good  reason  to  apprehend 
You  may  find  it  vjaxed,  at  the  farther  end, 

By  some  plebeian  vocation  ! 
Or,  worse  that  that,  your  boasted  line 
May  end  in  a  loop  of  stronger  twine, 

That  plagued  some  worthy  relation  ! 

JOHN  G.   SAXE. 


PLAIN    LANGUAGE    FROM    TRUTHFUL 
JAMES. 

POPULARLY    KNOWN    AS    "  THE    HEATHEN   CHINEE." 


Which  I  wish  to  remark  — 

And  my  language  is  plain  — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 


-tr— 


-4± 

-— tr 


-n- 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


729 


ft 


And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar  : 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name  ; 

And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply  ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies, 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise  : 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  W'illiam 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand  : 
It  was  euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand  ; 
But  he  smiled,  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve, 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played. 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see  — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  ;i  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me  ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor,"  — 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  thai  ensued 
I  did  nni  take  a  hand, 

Bu1   the  Hour  it   was  strewed 

Like  the  haves  <m  the  strand 
With  the  e.nds  that  All  Sili  had  been  hiding 

In  the  game  "lie  did  not  understand." 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

I te  had  twenty-four  packs— • 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  1  stale  hut  the  tacts. 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper  — 

What  i.s  frequent  in  tapers      thai  's  wax. 


Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar  — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 

Francis  Bret  Harte. 


-♦ 


NONSENSE. 

Good  reader,  if  you  e'er  have  seen, 

When  Phcebus  hastens  to  his  pillow, 
The  mermaids,  with  their  tresses  green, 

Dancing  upon  the  western  billow  ; 
If  you  have*  seen  at  twilight  dim, 
When  the  lone  spirit's  vesper-hymn 

Floats  wild  along  the  winding  shore, 
If  you  have  seen  through  mist  of  eve 
The  fairy  train  their  ringlets  weave, 
Glancing  along  the  spangled  green  ;  — 

If  you  have  seen  all  this,  and  more, 
God  bless  me  !  what  a  deal  you  've  seen  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


WOMAN'S  WILL. 


AN    EPIGRAM. 


Men  dying  make  their  wills — but  wives 

Escape  a  work  so  sad  ; 

Why  should  they  make  what  all  their  lives 

The  gentle  dames  have  bad  ? 

John  Godfrey  Saxe. 

/ 


BACHELOR'S   HALL. 

Bachelor's  Hall,  what  a  comical  place  it  is  ! 

Keep  me  from  such  all  the  days  of  my  life  ! 
Sure  but  lie  knows  what  a  burning  disgrace  it  is, 

Never  at  all  to  be  getting  a  wife. 

See  the  old  bachelor,  gloomy  and  sad  enough, 
Fussing  around  while  he  's  making  his  lire  ; 

His  kettle  has  tipt  up,  och,  honey,  lie  'sniadenough, 
If  he  were  present,  to  tight  with  the  squire  ! 

Pots,  dishes,   and   pans,  and   such  other   com- 
modities, 

Ashes  and  praty-skins,  kiver  the  floor  ; 
His  cupboard  a  storehouse  of  comical  oddities, 

Things  never  thought  of  as  neighbors  before. 

When]  lis  meal  it  i.s  over,  the  table's  left  sit  tin'  so  ; 

Dishes,  take  care  of  yourselves  if  you  can; 
Devil  a  drop  of  hot  water  will  visit  ye. 

Och,  let  him  alone  for  a  baste  of  a  man  ! 


# 


a- 


730 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


Now,  like  a  pig  in  a  mortar-bed  wallowing, 
See  the  old  bachelor  kneading  his  dough  ; 

Troth,  if  his  bread  he  can  ate  without  swallowing, 
How  it  would  help  his  digestion,  ye  know  ! 

Late  in  the  night,  when  he  goes  to  bed  shivering, 
Never  the  bit  is  his  bed  made  at  all ; 

So  he  creeps  like  a  terrapin  under  the  kivering ;  — 
Bad  luck  to  the  pictur  of  Bachelor's  Hall  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


MR.  MOLONY'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BALL 

GIVEN    TO  THE    NEPAULESE   AMBASSADOR    BY  THE  PENIN- 
SULAR   AND   ORIENTAL    COMPANY. 

0,  will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news  ? 

Bedad,  I  cannot  pass  it  o'er  : 
I  '11  ,tell  you  all  about  the  ball 

To  the  Naypaulase  Ambassador. 
Begor  !  this  fete  all  balls  does  bate, 

At  which  1  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 

Of  th'  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 
"  "We  '11  show  the  blacks,"  says  they,  "  Almack's, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis's." 
"With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 

They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 
And  decked  the  walls  and  stairs  and  halls 

With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 

And  Jullien's  band  it  tuck  its  stand 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 
And  soft  bassoons  played  heavenly  chunes, 

And  violins  did  Addle  there. 
And  when  the  Coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

1  'd  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  nate  buffet  before  them  set, 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was  ! 

At  ten  before  the  ball-room  door, 

His  moighty  Excellency  was  ; 
He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd, 

So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 
His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute, 

Into  the  door-way  followed  him  ; 
And  0  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys, 

As  they  hurrood  and  hollowed  him  ! 

The  noble  Chair  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dthrums  to  thump  ;  and  he 

Did  thus  evince  to  that  Black  Prince 
The  welcome  of  his  Company. 

0  fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oys,  you  saw  there,  was  ; 

And  lixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi, 


On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther  was  ! 


This  Gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate, 

With  all  the  other  ginerals, 
(Bedad,  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals  ;) 
And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 

Recloinin  on  his  cushion  was, 
All  round  about  his  royal  chair, 

The  squeezin  and  the  pushin  was. 

0  Pat,  such  girls,  suoh  Jukes  and  Earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee  ! 
Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 

Amidst  the  hoigh  gentility  ! 
There  was  Lord  De  L' Hays, and  the  Portygeese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there, 
And  I  reckonized,  with  much  surprise, 

Our  messmate,  Bob  O'Grady,  there  ; 

There  was  Baroness  Brunow,  that  looked  like  Juno, 

And  Baroness  Rehausen  there, 
And  Countess  Roullier,  that  looked  peculiar 

Well,  in  her  robes  of  gauze  in  there. 
There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (1  knew  him  first 

When  only  Mr.  Pips  he  was), 
And  Mick  O'Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 

That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fingall  and  his  ladies  all, 

And  Lords  Killeen  and  Dufferin, 
And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife,  — 

I  wondther  how  he  could  stuff  her  in. 
There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past, 

A  nd  seemed  to  ask  how  should  /  go  there  ? 
And  the  Widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A.  Hay, 

And  the  Marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  Jukes  and  Earls,  and  diamonds  and  pearls, 
And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there  ; 

And  some  beside  (the  rogues  !)  I  spied, 
Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 

0,  there  's  one  I  know,  bedad,.  would  show 
As  beautiful  as  any  there  ; 

And  I  'd  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there  ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


IRISH   ASTRONOMY. 

A     VERITABLE    MYTH,     TOUCHING    THE     CONSTELLATION 
OF  o'ryan,  IGNORANTLY  AND    FALSELY   SPELLED  ORION. 

O'Kyan  was  a  man  of  might 

Whin  Ireland  was  a  nation, 
But  poachin'  was  his  heart's  delight 

And  constant  occupation. 
He  had  an  ould  militia  gun, 

And  sartin  sure  his  aim  was  ; 
He  gave  the  keepers  many  a  run, 

And  would  n't  mind  the  game  laws. 


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St.  Pathrick  wanst  was  passin'  by 

O'Eyan's  little  houldin', 
And,  as  the  saint  felt  wake  and  dhry, 

He  thought  he  'd  enther  bould  in. 
"O'Ryan,"  says  the  saint,  "aviek  ! 

To  praich  at  Thurles  1  'm  goin'  ; 
So  let  me  have  a  rasher  quick, 

And  a  dhrop  of  Innishowen." 

"  No  rasher  will  I  cook  for  you 

While  betther  is  to  spare,  sir, 
But  here  's  a  jug  of  mountain  dew, 

And  there  's  a  rattlin'  hare,  sir." 
St.  Pathrick  he  looked  mighty  sweet, 

And  says  he,  "  Good  luck  attind  you, 
And  when  you  're  in  your  windin'  sheet, 

It 's  up  to  heaven  1  '11  sind  you." 

O'Ryan  gave  his  pipe  a  whiff,  — 

"Them  tidin's  is  thransportin', 
But  may  I  ax  your  saintship  if 

There  's  any  kind  of  sportin'  ? " 
St.  Pathrick  said,  "A  Lion's  there, 

Two  Bears,  a  Bull,  and  Cancer  "  — 
"  Bedad,"  says  Mick,  "  the  huntin  's  rare  ; 

St.  Pathrick,  I  'm  your  man,  sir." 

So,  to  conclude  my  song  aright, 
For  fear  I  'd  tire  your  patience, 

You  '11  see  O'Eyan  any  night 
A  in  id  the  constellations. 

And  Venus  follows  in  his  track 
Till  Mars  grows  jealous  raally, 

But,  faith,  he  fears  the  Irish  knack 

Of  handling  the  shillaly. 

Charles  G.  Halpine. 

(MILES  O'REILLY.) 


SONG   OF   THE   ICHTHYOSAURUS. 

fThis  curious  specimen  of  German  scientific  humor  refers  to  the 
clnse  t.f  the  Inn-  i.  (or  I.i.issic)  period  and  the  beginning  of  the 
Cretaceous,  and  desi  ribes  the  sad  forebodings  of  .1  venerable  Sau- 
rian, who  sees  in  the  degeneracy  of  the  times  a  sign  of  the  coining 
catath 

The  translator  says.  •■  Among  the  many  extraordinary  liberties 
;ed  to  take  with  the  letter  of  the  original,  in 
order  '  is  far  as  possible  its  spirit  and  it-  (lowing  move- 

ment, the  most  violent  is  the  substitution  in  the  last  stanza  but  one. 
of  an  entirely  new  (and  poor)  joke  for  the  very  neat,  bul  untrans- 
latable^c/i  of  the  1  .erinan.     The  last  two  lines  of  the  stanza  are  : 
kainen  zu  tief  in  die  Kr 

Da  war  es  naturlu  h  VOI 
The  literal  meaning  is,    The',  leep  in  the  chalk,  and   it 

1  e.  all   up  with  Ihcin.'     The  allusion  is  to   tli 
by  a  landlord  against  some  bibulous  bul  impecunious 
customer  ;  and  the  notion  thai  the  Sauriaru  ran  up  so  large  an  ac- 
count for  drinks  that  the  chalk  required  to  mark  their  Indebtedness 
smothered  the  who  I  brought  on  the  Cretaceous  or  chalk 

period  rdly  funny  that  it  is  a  pity  to  sacrifice  It."] 

There's  a  rustling  in  the  rushes, 

There  's  d  flashing  in  the  sea, 
There's  a  tearful  Ichthyosaurus 

.Swims  hither  mournfully ! 


He  weeps  o'er  the  modern  corruption, 
Compared  with  the  good  old  times, 

And  don't  know  what  is  the  matter 
With  the  Upper  Jura  limes  ! 

The  hoary  old  Plesiosaurus 

Does  naught  but  quaff  and  roar  ; 

And  the  Pterodactylus  lately 

Flew  drunk  to  his  own  front  door  ! 

The  Iguanodon  of  the  Period 

G  rows  worse  with  every  stratum  ; 

He  kisses  the  Ichthyosauresses 
Whenever  he  can  get  at  'em  ! 

I  feel  a  catastrophe  coming; 

This  epoch  will  soon  be  done, 
And  what  will  become  of  the  Jura 

If  such  goings-on  go  on  ? 

1 

The  groaning  Ichthyosaurus 

Turns  suddenly  chalky  pale  ; 
He  sighs  from  his  steaming  nostrils, 

He  writhes  with  his  dying  tail ! 

In  that  self-same  hour  and  minute 
Died  the  whole  Saurian  stem,  — 

The  fossil-oil  in  their  liquor 
Soon  put  an  end  to  them  ! 

And  the  poet  found  their  story 

Which  here  he  doth  indite, 
In  the  form  of  a  petrified  album-leaf 

Upon  a  coprolite  ! 

ROSSITER  W.   RAYMOND. 


TO  THE   PLIOCENE   SKULL. 

A   GEOLOGICAL   ADDRESS. 

["  A  human  skull  has  been  found  in  California,  in  the  pliocene  for- 
mation.    This  skull  is  the  remnant,  not  only  of  the  earliest  pioneer 

ot  this  State,  but  the  oldest  known  human  being The  skull 

was  found  in  a  shaft  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  deep,  two  miles 
from  Angel's,  ill  Calaveras  County,  by  a  miller  named  James  Mat- 
son,  who  gave  it  to  Mr.  Scribner,  a  merchant,  and  he  gave  it  to  Or. 
Jones,  who  sent  it  to  the  State  G  Survey The  pub- 

lished volume  of  the  State  Survey  on  the  Geology  of  California 
states  that  man  existed  contemporaneously  with  the  mastodon,  but 
this  fossil  j. roves  that  he  was  here  before  the  mastodon  was  known 
to  exist. '  —  Daily  Paper.] 

"Speak,  Oman,  less  recent!  Fragmentary  fossil ! 

Primal  pioneer  of  pliocene  formation, 
Hid  in  lowest  drifts  below  the  earliest  stratum 
<H  Volcanic  tufa  ! 


olilrr  than  the  beasts,  tin-  oldest  Palfeotherium.; 
Older  than  the  tires,  the  oldest  Cryptogamiaj 
Older  than  the  hills,  those  infant  eruptions 
Of  earth's  epidermis  ! 


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Eo  —  Mio  —  Plio  —  whatsoe'er  the  "  cene  "  was 
That  those  vacant  sockets  filled  with  awe  and 

wonder,  — 
"Whether  shores  Devonian  or  Silurian  beaches,  — 
Tell  us  thy  strange  story  ! 

Or  has  the  Professor  slightly  antedated 
By  some  thousand  years  thy  advent  on.this  planet, 
Giving  thee  an  air  that 's  somewhat  better  fitted 
For  cold-blooded  creatures  ? 

Wert  thou  true  spectator  of  that  mighty  forest 
When  above  thy  head  the  stately  Sigillaria 
Eeared  its  columned  trunks  in  that  remote  and 
distant 
Carboniferous  epoch  ? 

Tell  us  of  that  scene,  —  the  dim  and  watery  wood- 
land, 
Songless,  silent,  hushed,  with  never  bird  or  insect, 
Veiled  with  spreading  fronds  and  screened  with 
tall  club-mosses, 
Lycopodiacea  — 

When  beside  thee  walked  the  solemn  Plesiosaurus, 
And  around  thee  crept  the  festive  Ichthyosaurus, 
While  from  time  to  time  above  thee  flew  and  circled 
Cheerful  Pterodactyls. 

Tell  us  of  thy  food,  — those  half-marine  refections, 
Crinoids  on  the  shell,  and  Bra.chii)ods  aunaturel, — 
Cuttle-fish  to  which  the  pieuvre  of  Victor  Hugo 
Seems  a  periwinkle. 

Speak,  thou  awful  vestige  of  the  earth's  creation,  — 
Solitary  fragment  of  remains  organic  ! 
Tell  the  wondrous  secrets  of  thy  past  existence,  — 
Speak  !  thou  oldest  primate  !  " 

Even  as  I  gazed,  a  thrill  of  the  maxilla 
And  a  lateral  movement  of  the  condyloid  process, 
With  post-pliocene  sounds  of  healthy  mastication, 
Ground  the  teeth  together. 

And  from  that  imperfect  dental  exhibition, 
Stained  with  expressed  juices  of  the  weed  Nicotian, 
Came  those  hollow   accents,  blent  with  softer 
murmurs 
Of  expectoration  : 

"Which  my  name  is  Bowers,  and  my  crust  was 

busted 
Falling  down  a  shaft,  in  Calaveras  County, 
But  I  'd  take  it  kindly  if  you  'd  send  the  pieces 
Home  to  old  Missouri  !  " 

Francis  Bret  Harte. 


THE  JOVIAL   BEGGAR. 

There  was  a  jovial  beggar, 

He  had  a  wooden  leg  ; 
Lame  from  his  cradle, 
And  forced  for  to  beg. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go, 

Will  go,  will  go, 
And  a-begging  we  will  go. 

A  bag  for  his  oatmeal, 

Another  for  his  salt, 
And  a  long  pair  of  crutches, 

To  show  that  he  can  halt. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

A  bag  for  his  wheat, 

Another  for  his  rye, 
And  a  little  bottle  by  his  side, 

To  drink  when  he  's  a-dry. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

Seven  years  I  begged 

For  my  old  master  Wilde  ; 
He  taught  me  how  to  beg 

When  I  was  but  a  child. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

I  begged  for  my  master, 

And  got  him  store  of  pelf ; 
But,  goodness  now  be  praised  ! 

I  'm  begging  for  myself. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

In  a  hollow  tree 

I  live,  and  pay  no  rent ; 
Providence  provides  for  me, 

And  I  am  well  content. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

Of  all  the  occupations 

A  beggar's  is  the  best, 
For  whenever  he  's  a-weary, 

He  can  lay  him  down  to  rest. 

And  a-begging  we  will  go,  etc. 

I  fear  no  plots  against  me, 

I  live  in  open  cell ; 
Then  who  would  be  a  king,  lads, 
When  the  beggar  lives  so  well  ? 
And  o,-begging  we  tvill  go, 

Will  go,  will  go, 
And  a-begging  we  ivill  go. 

ANONYMOUS. 


GOOD   ALE. 

I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat,  — 
My  stomach  is  not  good  ; 


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But,  sure,  I  think  that  I  can  drink 

With  any  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care  ; 

I  am  nothing  a-cold,  — 
I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare  ; 

Both  fool  and  hand  go  cold; 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

TVhether  it  be  new  or  old  1 

I  love  no  roast  but  a  nut-brown  toast, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire  ; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead,  — 

Much  bread  I  not  desire. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold,  — 
I  am  so  wrapt,  and  thorowly  lapt 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

And  Tyb,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 
Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  you  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek  ; 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl, 

Even  as  a  malt-worm  should  ; 
And  saith,  "  Sweetheart,  I  took  my  part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old." 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and  wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do  ; 
Tiny  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

I  ale  doth  firing  men  to  ; 
And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured  bowls, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trowled, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  young  or  old  ! 
Back  an 'l  side  go  bare,  go  bare ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold; 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Wlicllicr  it  be  new  or  old  ! 

John  Still. 


GLUGGITY   GLUG. 

FROM    "THE    MYRTLE    AND    THE   VINE." 

A  jolli  fit  friar  loved  liquor  good  store, 

And  he  had  drank  stonily  al  Bupper; 
He  mounted  his  horse  in  the  nighl  a1  t he  door, 
And  sal  with  his  face  to  the  crupper: 

rogue,"  quoth  the  friar,  "quite  dead  to 
remorse, 
Some  thief,  whom  a  halter  will  throttle, 
Some  scoundrel  has  bu1  off  the  head  of  my  horse, 
While  1  was  engaged  al  the  bottle, 

Which  wenl  ;  luggity,  gluggity— glug 
—  glug— glug." 


The  tail  of  the  steed  pointed  south  on  the  dale, 
'T  was   the  friar's   road   home,   straight    and 
level ; 
But,  when  spurred,  a  horse  follows  his  nose,  not 
his  tail, 
So  he  scampered  due  north,  like  a  devil  : 
"  This  new  mode  of  docking,"  the  friar  then  said, 

' '  I  perceive  does  n't  make  a  horse  trot  ill  ; 
And't  is  cheap,  — for  he  never  can  eat  off  his  head 
While  I  am  engaged  at  the  bottle, 

Which  goes  gluggity,  gluggity  —  glug 

—  glug— glug." 

The  steed  made  a  stop,  —  in  a  pond  he  had  got, 

He  was  rather  for  drinking  than  grazing  ; 
Quoth  the  friar,    "Tis  strange  headless  horses 
should  trot, 
But  to  drink  with  their  tails  is  amazing  ! " 
Turning  round  to  see  whence  this  phenomenon 
rose, 
In  the  pond  fell  this  son  of  a  pottle  ; 
Quoth  he,  "  The  head 's  found,  for  I  'm  under  his 
nose,  — 
I  wish  I  were  over  a  bottle, 

Which  goes  gluggity,  gluggity  —  glug 

—  glug  — glug." 

ANONYMOUS. 


ODE  FOR  A  SOCIAL  MEETING. 

WITH    SLIGHT   ALTERATIONS   BY   A   TEETOTALER. 

Come  !  fill  a  fresh  bumper,  ■ —  for  why  should  we 
g° 

logwood 

While  the  licetur  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they 
flow  ? 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  seh  juicol-  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 

Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  mbit*  shall  run. 

half-ripened  apples 

The  purple  gin  bod  uluntorr,  their  life-dews  have 
bled; 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  bm«-h  of  the  fragrance  tluyehod! 

rank  poisons  wines  .'  !  .' 

For  summer's  lnot  roees  lie  hid  in  the  wir*^ 

-boys  smoking  long-nines 

That   were   garnered  by  uutidouu  who  laiiglunl 
through  llie  vinoc. 

scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Thenaewul*, andagiftwi,  and  a  u**4„  andaefeeer, 

,;n     in. I  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and 

For -hII  the yfrmd  v.ine,  mid  we  've  Ttomc  oi  if  Irere  ! 
In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

I ).  iwn,  down  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all : 
hoitg  live  thf  g.<y  tiwvtmt  U**< fa-M^^hs  1<h^ii..  oil! 
Oliver  Wkndbli   Holmes. 


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A   NOSEGAY. 


A    SIMILE    FOR    REVIEWERS. 


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Ye  overseers  and  reviewers 

Of  all  the  Muses'  sinks  and  sewers, 

Who  dwell  on  high, 

Enthroned  among  your  peers 

The  garreteers, 

That  border  on  the  sky  : 

Who  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

Ye  have  such  ears 

And  dwell  so  high  ! 

I  thank  you  for  your  criticism, 

Which  you  have  ushered  in 

With  a  delightful  witticism 

That  tastes  like  rotten  fruit  preserved  in  gin ; 

And  therefore  marvel  not  that  my  two  ballads, 

Which  are  but  like  two  salads, 

By  no  means  suit, 

Like  your  fruit, 

With  your  palates. 

I  do  admire  your  dealings, 

To  speak  according  to  your  feelings, 

And  do  believe  if  you  had  withal 

You  would  drop  honey, 

And  that  you  overflow  with  gall 

Because  you  do  not  overflow  with  money. 

Thence  all  your  spite 

Against  a  poor  conundrumite, 

Whose  only  business  is  to  watch 

Where  the  conundrums  lie, 

And  be  upon  the  watch, 

As  they  go  by; 

To  make  a  simile  in  no  feature 

Resembling  the  creature 

That  he  has  in  his  eye, 

Just  as  a  fisher  shoots  an  owl, 

Or  a  sea-fowl, 

To  make  the  likeness  of  a  fly  ; 

Just  as  yon  look  into  the  fire, 

For  any  likeness  you  desire. 

Simile-making  is  an  undertaking, 

In  which  the  undertaker 

Resembles  the  marriage-contract  maker  ; 

A  poor  industrious  man  who  means  no  ill, 

But  does  the  best  he  can 

With  a  quill, 

In  that  he  does  according  to  his  skill. 

If  matt*  rs  can  be  brought  to  bear 

So  as  to  tie  the  knot, 

He  does  not  care 

Whether  they  are  a  happy  pair  or  not; 

And.  as  I  said  at  first, 

Nothing  could  make  you  all  so  keen 

And  curst, 

But  that  which  makes  you  all  so  lean,  — 

Hunger  and  thirst. 

So  now  and  then  a  judge 


Consigns  a  wretch 

To  Master  Ketch, 

Having  no  grudge  ; 

No  reason  clear  can  be  assigned, 

Only,  like  you,  he  has  not  dined. 

So  far  from  wishing  your  allowance  shorter, 

I  wish,  for  all  your  sakes, 

You  may  never  want  beefsteaks 

And  porter, 

And  for  your  merits 

A  dram  of  British  spirits. 

And  so  I  leave  you  with  a  fable 

Designed,  without  a  sneer, 

To  exhilarate  your  table 

And  give  a  relish  to  your  beer. 

I  beg  my  compliments  to  all  your  ladies 

The  revieweresses — 

Hark  !  !  ! 

And,  if  you  please  take  warning, 

My  fable  is  concerning 

A  cuckoo  and  a  lark. 

If  I  had  said  a  nightingale, 

You  would  have  cried  — 

You  could  not  fail, 

That  it  was  pride, 

And  naught  beside, 

That  made  me  think  of  such  a  tale. 

Upon  a  tree  as  they  were  sitting 

They  fell  into  a  warm  dispute, 

Warmer  than  was  fitting, 

Which  of  them  was  the  better  flute. 

After  much  prating 

And  debating, 

Not  worth  relating, 

Things  came  to  such  a  pass, 

They  both  agree 

To  take  an  ass 

For  referee  : 

The  ass  was  studying  botany  and  grass 

Under  the  tree. 

What  do  you  think  was  the  decree  ? 

"  Why, "  said  the  ass, "  the  question  is  not  hard : " 

And  so  he  made  an  excellent  award, 

As  you  shall  see. 

"The  lark,"  says  he, 

"  Has  got  a  wild  fantastic  pipe, 

But  no  more  music  than  a  snipe  ; 

It  gives  one  pain 

And  turns  one's  brain, 

One  can't  keep  time  to  such  a  strain  ; 

Whereas  the  cuckoo's  note 

Is  measured  and  composed  with  thought ; 

His  method  is  distinct  and  clear, 

And  dwells 

Like  bells 

Upon  the  ear, 

Which  is  the  sweetest  music  one  can  hear. 

I  can  distinguish,  I  '11  lay  a  wager, 


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HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


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ft 


His  manner  and  expression, 

From  every  forester  and  eager 

Of  the  profession." 

Tims  ended  the  dispute  : 

The  cuckoo  was  quite  mute 

With  admiration,  , 

The  lark  stood  laughing  at  the  brute 

Affecting  so  much  penetration. 

The  ass  was  so  intoxicated 

And  shallow-pated, 

That  ever  since 

He  's  got  a  fancy  in  his  skull, 

That  he  's  a  commission  from  his  prince, 

Dated  when  the  moon's  at  full ; 

To  summon  every  soul , 

Every  ass  and  ass's  foal, 

To  try  the  quick  and  dull  ; 

Trumpeting  through  the  fields  and  streets, 

Stopping  and  jading  all  he  meets, 

Pronouncing  with  an  air 

Of  one  pronouncing  from  the  chair, 

"  Here  's  a  beauty,  this  is  new, — 

And  that's  a  blemish 

For  which  I  have  no  relish,"  — 

Just  like  the  Critical  Review. 

Sterne. 


THE  YARN   OF    THE    "NANCY  BELL." 

FROM    "THE    BAB    BALLADS." 

'T  was  on  the  shores  that  round  our  coast 

From  Deal  to  Ramsgate  span, 
That  I  found  alone,  on  a  piece  of  stone, 

An  elderly  naval  man. 

His  hair  was  weedy,  his  heard  was  long, 

And  weedy  and  long  was  he  ; 
And  I  heard  this  wight  on  the  shore  recite, 

In  a  singular  minor  key  :  — 

"0,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold, 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 

And  he  shool  his  fists  and  he  tore  his  hair. 

Till  1  really  felt  afraid, 
For  I  could  n't  help  thinking  the  man  had  been 

ill  inking. 
And  so  I  simply  said  ;  — 

"  0  elderly  man,  it  's  little  I  know 

( If  the  'lutirs  of  men  of  the  Bea, 
And  T  '1!  eat  my  hand  if  I  understand 

1 1       you  can  possibly  be 

"At  once  a  cool?  and  a  captain  bold, 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 


And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig  !  " 

Then  he  gave  a  hitch  to  his  trousers,  which 

Is  a  trickall  seamen  larn, 
And  having  got  rid  of  a  thumping  quid 

He  spun  this  painful  yarn  :  — 

"  'T  was  in  the  good  ship  Nancy  Bell 
That  we  sailed  to  the  Indian  sea, 

And  there  on  a  reef  we  come  to  grief, 
Which  has  often  occurred  to  me. 

"And  pretty  nigh  all  o'  the  crew  was  drowned 

(There  was  seventy-seven  o'  soul)  ; 
And  only  ten  of  the  Nancy's  men 

Said  '  Here '  to  the  muster-roll. 

• 

' '  There  was  me,  and  the  cook,  and  th  e  captain  bold, 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a  bo'sun  tight  and  a  midshipmite, 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

"  For  a  month  we  'd  neither  wittles  nor  drink, 

Till  a  hungry  we  did  feel, 
So  we  drawed  a  lot,  and,  accordin',  shot 

The  captain  for  our  meal. 

"  The  next  lot  fell  to  the  Nancy's  mate, 

And  a  delicate  dish  he  made  ; 
Then  our  appetite  with  the  midshipmite 

We  seven  survivors  stayed. 

"And  then  we  murdered  the  bo'sun  tight, 

And  he  much  resembled  pig  ; 
Then  we  wittled  free,  did  the  cook  and  me, 

On  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig. 

"  Then  only  the  cook  and  me  was  left, 
And  the  delicate  question,    '  Which 

Of  us  two  goes  to  the  kettle  ? '  arose, 
And  we  argued  it  out  as  sich. 

"For  I  loved  that  cook  as  a  brother,  I  did, 
And  the  cook  he  worshipped  me  ; 

But  we  'd  Loth  be  blowed  if  we  'd  cither  be  stowed 
In  the  other  chap's  hold,  you  see. 

"  '  I  '11  be  eat  if  you  dines  off  me,'  says  Tom. 

'Yes,  that,'  says  I,  'you'll  be. 
I  'm  boiled  if  I  die,  my  friend,'  quoth  I  ; 

And  '  Exactly  so,'  quoth  he. 

"Says  he  :   'Dear  James,  to  murder  me 
Were  a  foolish  thing  to  do, 

For  don't  you  see  that  you  can't  cook  me, 
While  1  can  —  and  will — cook  you?' 

"So  he  boils  the  water,  and  takes  the  salt 
And  the  pepper  in  portions  true 

(Whichhe  never  forgot),  and  some  choppedshalot, 
And  some  sage  and  parsley  too. 


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"  '  Come  here,'  says  he,  with  a  proper  pride. 
Which  his  smiling  features  tell ; 

'  'T  will  soothing  be  if  I  let  you  see 
How  extremely  nice  you  '11  smell.' 

"And  he  stirred  it  round,  and  round,  and  round, 
And  he  sniffed  at  the  foaming  froth  ; 

"When  I  ups  with  las  heels,  and  smothers  his 
squeals 
In  the  scum  of  the  boiling  broth. 

"  And  I  eat  that  cook  in  a  week  or  less, 

And  as  I  eating  be 
The  last  of  his  chops,  why  I  almost  drops, 

For  a  wessel  in  sight  I  see. 

"  And  I  never  larf,  and  I  never  smile, 

And  I  never  lark  nor  play  ; 
But  I  sit  and  croak,  and  a  single  joke 

I  have  —  which  is  to  say  : 

"  0,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold 

And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig, 

And  a  bo'sun  tight,  and  a  midshipmite, 

And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig  !  " 

W.  s.  Gilbert. 


COLOGNE. 

Ix  KiJln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones, 

And  pavements  fanged  with  murderous  stones, 

And  rags,  and  hags,  and  hideous  wenches,  — 

I  counted  two-and-seventy  stenches, 

All  well-defined  and  several  stinks  ! 

Ye  nymphs  that  reign  o'er  sewers  and  sinks, 

The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 

Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne  ; 

But  tell  me,  nymphs  !  what  power  divine 

Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine  ? 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


THE  WILL. 

[The  following  will,  by  which  .1  lnrgfe  fortune  was  bequeathed  was 
proved  in  Doctors'  Commons,  London,  in  1737.] 

The  fifth  day  of  May 
Being  airy  and  gay, 
And  to  hyp.  not  inclined, 
But  of  vigorous  mind, 
And  my  body  in  health, 
I  '11  dispose  of  my  wealth, 
And  all  I  'm  to  leave 
On  this  side  of  the  grave, 
To  some  one  or  other, 
And  I  think  to  my  brother, 
Because  I  foresaw 
That  my  brethren  in  law, 


If  I  did  not  take  care, 

Would  come  in  for  a  share  ; 

Which  I  no  wise  intended 

Till  their  manners  were  mended. 

Of  that  there  's  no  sign, 

I  do  therefore  enjoin, 

And  do  strictly  command, 

Of  which  witness  my  hand, 

That  naught  I  have  got 

Be  brought  to  hotch-pot ; 

But  I  give  and  devise 

As  much  as  in  me  lies 

To  the  son  of  my  mother, 

My  own  dear  brother, 

To  have  and  to  hold, 

All  my  silver  and  gold, 

Both  sutton  and  potten, 

Until  the  world  's  rotten, 

As  the  affectionate  pledges 

Of  his  brother. 

John  Hedges. 


ECHO. 


I  asked  of  Echo,  't  other  day, 

(Whose  words  are  few  and  often  funny,) 
What  to  a  novice  she  could  say 

Of  courtship,  love,  and  matrimony  ? 

Quoth  Echo,  plainly,  —  "  Matter-o' -money 

Whom  should  I  marry  ?  —  should  it  be 
A  dashing  damsel,  gay  and  pert, 

A  pattern  of  inconstancy  ; 
Or  selfish,  mercenary  flirt  ? 
Quoth  Echo,  sharply,  —  "Nary  flirt ! " 

What  if,  aweary  of  the  strife 

That  long  has  lured  the  dear  deceiver, 
She  promise  to  amend  her  life, 

And  sin  no  more  ;  can  I  believe  her  ? 

Quoth  Echo,  very  promptly,  —  "Leave  her 

But  if  some  maiden  with  a  heart 
On  me  should  venture  to  bestow  it, 

Pray,  should  I  act  the  wiser  part 
To  take  the  treasure,  or  forego  it  ? 
Quoth  Echo,  with  decision,  —  "  Go  it !  " 

But  what  if,  seemingly  afraid 
To  bind  her  fate  in  Hymen's  fetter, 

She  vow  she  means  to  die  a  maid, 
In  answer  to  my  loving  letter  ? 
Quoth  Echo,  rather  coolly,  —  "  Let  her !  " 

What  if,  in  spite  of  her  disdain, 

I  find  my  heart  intwined  about 
With  Cupid's  clear  delicious  chain 

So  closely  that  I  can't  get  out  ? 

Quoth  Echo,  laughingly,  —  "  Get  out ! " 


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HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


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But  if  some  maid  with  beauty  blest, 

As  pure  and  fair  as  Heaven  can  make  her, 

Will  share  my  labor  and  my  rest 

Till  envious  Death  shall  overtake  her  ? 
Quoth  Echo  (sotto  voce),  —  "Take  her  ! " 

JOHN  G.  SAXE. 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

Beside,  he  was  a  shrewd  philosopher, 
And  had  read  every  text  and  gloss  over  ; 
Whate'er  the  crabbed'st  author  hath, 
He  understood  b'  implicit  faith. 
Whatever  sceptic  could  inquire  for, 
For  every  why  he  had  a  wherefore  ; 
Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do, 
As  far  as  words  and  terms  could  go  : 
All  which  he  understood  by  rote, 
And,  as  occasion  served,  would  quote  ; 
No  matter  whether  right  or  wrong  ; 
They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 
His  notions  fitted  things  so  well 
That  which  was  which  he  could  not  tell ; 
But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 
For  the  other,  as  great  clerks  have  done. 
He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts, 
And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts  ; 
Where  entity  and  quiddity, 
The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies,  fly  ; 
Y.'ltvre  truth  in  person  does  appear, 
Like  words  congealed  in  northern  air  : 
He  knew  what's  what,  and  that's  as  high 
As  metaphysic  wit  can  fly. 

SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


LOGIC  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 
Profoundly  skilled  in  analytic  ; 
He  could  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  Bouthwest  side  ; 
on  either  which  In1  would  dispute, 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute  : 
He'd  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 

rgument,  a  man  's  no  horse  ; 
He  M  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 
And  that  a  lord  may  !»•  an  owl, 
A  calf  an  alderman,  a  -our  a  justice, 
And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 
11.'  M  mn  in  debl  by  dii  putation, 
And  pay  v.  ith  ratiocination  : 
All  this  by  Byllogism  time, 
In  i,  i  figuri  In:  would  do. 

SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


THE   VIRTUOSO. 

IN    IMITATION   OF   SPENSER'S   STYLE    AND   STANZA. 

■'....    Videmus 
Nugan  solitos."—  Persius. 

Whilom  by  silver  Thames's  gentle  stream, 
In  London  town  there  dwelt  a  subtle  wight,  — 

A  wight  of  mickle  wealth,  and  mickle  fame, 
Bookdearned  and  quaint  :  a  Virtuoso  hight. 

Uncommon  things,  and  rare,  were  his  delight ; 
From  musings  deep  his  brain  ne'er  gotten  ease, 

Nor  ceased  he  from  study,  day  or  night  •, 
Until  (advancing  onward  by  degrees) 
Heknew  whatever  breeds  on  earth  or  air  or  seas. 

He  many  a  creature  did  anatomize, 

Almost  unpeopling  water,  air,  and  land  ; 

Beasts,  fishes,  birds,  snails,  caterpillars,  flies, 
Were  laid  full  low  by  his  relentless  hand, 

That  oft  with  gory  crimson  was  distained  ; 
He  many  a  dog  destroyed,  and  many  a  cat ; 

Of  fleas  his  bed,  of  frogs  the  marshes  drained, 
Could  tellen  if  a  mite  were  lean  or  fat, 
And  read  a  lecture  o'er  the  entrails  of  a  gnat. 

He  knew  the  various  modes  of  ancient  times, 

Their  arts  and  fashions  of  each  different  guise, 
Theirweddings,  funerals,  punishments  for  crimes, 

Their  strength,  their  learning  eke,  and  rarities  ; 
Of  old  habiliments,  each  sort  and  size, 

Male,  female,  high  and  low,  to  him  were  known; 
Each  gladiator  dress,  and  stage  disguise  ; 

With  learned,  clerkly  phrase  he  could  have 
shown 

How  the  Greek  tunic  differed  from  the  Roman 
gown. 

A  curious  medallist,  I  wot,  he  was, 

And  boasted  many  a  course  of  ancient  coin  ; 

Well  as  his  wife's  he  knewen  every  face, 
From  Julius  Csesar  down  to  Constantine  : 

For  some  rare  sculpture  he  would  oft  ypine, 
(As  green-sick  damosels  for  husbands  do  -.) 

Ami  when  obtained,  with  enrapture. 1  eyne, 
He  \1  run  it  o'er  and  o'er  with  greedy  view, 
And  look,  and  look  again,  as  he  would  look  it 
through. 

His  rich  museum,  of  dimensions  fair, 

With  goods  that  spoke  the  owner's  mind  was 
fraught  : 
Things  ancient,  curious,  value-worth,  and  i 

Fro  idland,  from  Greece  and  Rome,  were 

brought, 
Which  he  with  mighty  sums  of  gold  had  bou 

( in  these  all  tides  with  joyous  eves  he  pored  ; 
And,  sootli  to  say,  himself  he  greater  thought, 


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HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


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When  he  beheld  his  cabinets  thus  stored, 
Than  if  he'd  been  of  Albion's  wealthy  cities  lord. 


Mark  Akenside. 


KING   CANUTE  AND   HIS   NOBLES. 

Canutk  was  by  his  nobles  taught  to  fancy, 
That,  by  a  kind  of  royal  necromancy, 

He  had  the  power  Old  Ocean  to  control. 
Down  rushed  the  royal  Dane  upon  the  strand, 
And  issued,  like  a  Solomon,  command,  — 
Poor  soul. 

"Go  back,  ye  waves,  you  blustering  rogues," 

quoth  he  ; 
"Touch  not  your  lord  and  master,  Sea  ; 

For  by  my  power  almighty,  if  you  do  —  " 
Then,  staring  vengeance,  out  he  held  a  stick, 
Vowing  to  drive  Old  Ocean  to  Old  Nick, 

Should  lie  even  wet  the  latchet  of  his  shoe. 

The  Sea  retired,  —  the  monarch  fierce  rushed  on, 
And  looked  as  if  he  'd  drive  him  from  the  land ; 

But  Sea,  not  caring  to  be  put  upon, 
Made  for  a  moment  a  bold  staud  : 

Not  only  made  a  stand  did  Mr.  Ocean, 
But  to  his  honest  waves  he  made  a  motion, 

And  bid  them  give  the  king  a  hearty  trim- 
ming. 
The  orders  seemed  a  deal  the  waves  to  tickle, 
For  soon  they  put  his  majesty  in  pickle, 

And  sat  his  royalties,  like  geese,  a  swimming. 

All  hands  aloft,  with  one  tremendous  roar, 
Sound  did  they  make  him  wish  himself  on  shore  ; 

His   head    and   ears   most   handsomely   they 
doused,  — 
Just  like  a  porpoise,  with  one  general  shout, 
The  waves  so  tumbled  the  poor  king  about,  — 

No  anabaptist  e'er  was  half  so  soused. 

At  length  toland  he  crawled,  ahalf-drowned  thing, 
Indeed  more  like  a  crab  than  like  a  kino-, 

And  found  his  courtiers  making  rueful  faces  : 
But  what  said  Canute  to  the  lords  and  gentry, 
Who  hailed  him  from  the  Avater,  on  his  entry, 

All  trembling  for  their  lives  or  places  ? 

"My  lords  and  gentlemen,  by  your  advice, 
I  've  Lad  with  Mr.  Sea  a  pretty  bustle  ; 

My  treatment  from  my  foe  not  over  nice, 

Just  made  a  jest  for  every  shrimp  and  muscle  : 

A  pretty  trick  for  one  of  my  dominion  !  — 
My  lords,  1  thank  you  for  your  great  opinion. 


You  '11   tell   me,  p'rhaps,   I  've   only  lost   one 
game, 

And  bid  me  try  another  —  for  the  rubber  ; 
Permit  me  to  inform  you  all,  with  shame, 

That  you  "re  a  set  of  knaves,  and  1  'm  a  lubber." 

DR.  WOLCOTT   (PETER  PlNDAK). 


LET   US   ALONE. 

A   REMINISCENCE   OF   "  THE   LATE   ONPLEASANTNESS." 

As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  swamp, 
There  sot  an  Old  Cove  in  the  dark  and  damp, 
And  at  everybody  as  passed  that  road 
A  stick  or  a  stone  this  Old  Cove  throwed  ; 
And  venever  he  flung  his  stick  or  his  stone, 
He  'd  set  up  a  song  of  "  Let  me  alone." 

"Let  me  alone,  for  I  loves  to  shy 

These  bits  of  things  at  the  passers-by  ; 

Let  me  alone,  for  1  've  got  your  tin, 

And  lots  of  other  traps  snugly  in  ; 

Let  me  alone,  —  I  am  rigging  a  boat 

To  grab  votever  you  've  got  afloat  ; 

In  a  veek  or  so  I  expects  to  come 

And  turn  you  out  of  your  'ouse  and  *ome  ; 

I  'm  a  quiet  Old  Cove,"  says  he,  with  a  groan  ; 

"All  I  axes  is,  Let  me  alone." 

Just  then  came  along,  on  the  self-same  vay, 

Another  Old  Cove,  and  began  for  to  say,  — 

"  Let  you  alone  !     That 's  comin'  it  strong  ! 

You  've  ben  let  alone  —  a  darned  site  too  long  ! 

Of  all  the  sarce  that  ever  I  heerd  ! 

Put  down  that  stick  !  (You  may  well  look  skeered.) 

Let  go  that  stone  !     If  you  once  show  fight, 

I  '11  knock  you  higher  than  any  kite. 

You  must  have  a  lesson  to  stop  your  tricks, 

And  cure  you  of  shying  them  stones  and  sticks  ; 

And    I  '11   have    my   hardware    back,    and    my 

cash, 
And  knock  your  scow  into  taraal  smash  ; 
And  if  ever  I  catches  you  round  my  ranch, 
I  '11  string  you  up  to  the  nearest  branch. 
The  best  you  can  do  is  to  go  to  bed, 
And  keep  a  decent  tongue  in  your  head  ; 
For  I  reckon,  before  you  and  I  are  done, 
You  '11  wish  you  had  let  honest  folks  alone." 

The  Old  Cove  stopped,  and  t'other  Old  Cove, 
He  sot  quite  still  in  his  cypress  grove, 
And  he  looked  at  his  stick,  revolvin'  slow, 
Vether  'twere  safe  to  shy  it,  or  no  ; 
And  he  grumbled  on,  in  an  injured  tone, 
|  "  All  that  I  axed  vos,  Let  me  alone." 

H.  P.   H.  BROWNEI  *. 


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EVENING. 


BY    A    TAILOR. 


Day  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre  ribs, 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about  me. 
Ah  me  !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending  robe  ! 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken  threads, 
Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 

Ha  !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 
So  like  a  cushion  ?     Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 
"Which  hoys  do  flout  us  with  ;  —  but  yet  I  love  thee, 
Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  surtout. 
Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 
As  these,  thy  puny  brethren  ;  and  thy  breath 
Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air  ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau, 
Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
Ami  growing  portly  in  Ins  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water  ? 

0  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
Which  is  tire  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

1  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 

When  these  young  hands  first  closed  uponagoose  ; 

1  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 

Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father, 

And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were  tailors  ; 

They  had  an  ancienl  uroose,  — it  was  an  heir-loom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 

It  happened  1  did  sec  it  on  a  time 

When  nunc  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it, 

And  it  did  burn  me,  — 0,  most  fearfully  ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth, 
Tlic  breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing  shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit, 
Em-  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence 
Kind  Mature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom  ;-    1  can  feel 
With  all  around  me  ;—  I  can  hail  the  Mowers 
That  sprig  earth's  mantle,  •    and  yon  quiel  bird, 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  nol  all  the  hidden  pockets, 

Where   Nature  stows  away  her  lowliness. 

Bui  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  1  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fashion, 
Oliver  Wendi  ll  Hi  ilmbs. 


THE   PILGRIMS   AND   THE   PEAS. 

A  brace  of  sinners,  for  no  good, 

Were  ordered  to  the  Virgin  Mary's  shrine, 

Who  at  Loretto  dwelt,  in  wax,  stone,  wood, 
And  in  a  fair  white  wig  looked  wondrous  tine. 

Fifty  long  miles  had  those  sad  rogues  to  travel, 
With  something  in  their  shoes  much  worse  than 

gravel ; 
In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse, 
The  priest  had  ordered  peas  into  their  shoes  : 
A  nostrum  famous  in  old  popish  times 
For  purifying  souls  that  stunk  of  crimes  : 

A  sort  of  apostolic  salt, 

Which  popish  parsons  for  its  powers  exalt, 
For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet, 
Just  as  our  kitchen  salt  keeps  meat. 

The  knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day, 
Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray  ; 

But  very  different  was  their  speed,  I  wot : 
One  of  the  sinners  galloped  on, 
Swift  as  a  bullet  from  a  gun  ; 

The  other  limped,  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 
One  saw  the  Virgin  soon,  Peccavi  cried, 

Had  his  soul  whitewashed  all  so  clever  ; 
Then  home  again  he  nimbly  hied, 

Made  lit  with  saints  above  to  live  forever. 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say, 

He  met  his  brother  rogue  about  half-way,  — 

Hobbling,   with  outstretched  arms  and  bended 

knees, 
Cursing  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  peas  ; 
His  eyes  in  tears,  his  cheeks  and  brow  in  sweat, 
Deep  sympathizing  with  his  groaning  feet. 
"How  now,"  the  light-toed,  whitewashed  pil- 
grim broke, 

"You  lazy  lubber  !" 
"  Ods  curse  it  !  "  cried  the  other,  "  't  is  no  joke  ; 
My  feet,  once  hard  as  any  rock, 
Are  now  as  soft  as  blubber. 

"  Excuse  me,  Virgin  Mai),  that  T  swear, 
As  for  Loretto,  I  shall  not  get  there  ; 
No,  to  the  Devil  my  sinful  soul  must  go, 

For  damme  if  1  ha'  n't  lost  every  toe. 

But,  brother  sinner,  pray  explain 
How  't    is  that   \  on  are  not  in  pain. 

What  power  hath  worked  a  wonder  for  your  toe* 
Whilst   1  just  like  a  snail  am  crawling, 
Now  swearing,  now  on  saints  devoutly  bawling, 

Whilst   not  a  rascal  conies  to  ease  my  woes  / 

"  How  is  't  that  you  can  like  a  greyhound  go, 

Merryasifthal  naughl  had  happened,  burn  ye!" 
"Why,'    cried   the  other,  grinning,  "you  must 
know, 


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That  just  before  I  ventured  on  my  journey, 
To  walk  a  little  more  at  ease, 
I  took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  peas ." 

DR.  WOLCOTT  (PETER  PINDAR). 


rrn 


THE  RAZOR-SELLER. 

A  fellow  in  a  market-town, 

Most  musical,  cried  razors  up  and  down, 

And  offered  twelve  for  eighteen  pence  ; 
Which  certainly  seemed  wondrous  cheap, 
And,  for  the  money,  quite  a  heap, 

As  every  man  would  buy,  with  cash  and  sense. 

A  country  bumpkin  the  great  offer  heard,  — 
Poor  Hodge,  who  suffered  by  a  broad  black  beard, 

That  seemed  a  shoe:brush  stuck  beneath  his 
nose  : 
With  cheerfulness  the  eighteen  pence  he  paid, 
Ami  proudly  to  himself  in  whispers  said, 

"This  rascal  stole  the  razors,  1  suppose. 

"No  matter  if  the  fellow  be  a  knave, 
Provided  that  the  razors  shave ; 

It  certainly  will  be  a  monstrous  prize." 
So  home  the  clown,  with  his  good  fortune,  went, 
Smiling,  in  heart  and  soul  content, 

And  quickly  soaped  himself  to  ears  and  eyes. 

Being  well  lathered  from  a  dish  or  tub, 
Hodge  now  began  with  grinning  pain  to  grub, 

Just  like  a  hedger  cutting  furze  ; 
'T  was  a  vile  razor  !  —  then  the  rest  he  tried,  — 
All  were  impostors.      "Ah!"  Hodge  sighed, 

"  I  wish  my  eighteen  pence  within  my  purse." 

In  vain  to  chase  his  beard,  and  bring  the  graces, 
He  cut,  and  dug,  and  winced,  and  stamped, 
and  swore  ; 
Brought  blood,   and  danced,   blasphemed,    and 
made  wry  faces, 
And  cursed  each  razor's  body  o'er  and  o'er  : 

His  muzzle  formed  of  opposition  stuff, 
Firm  as  a  Foxite,  would  not  lose  its  ruff; 

So  kept  it,  —  laughing  at  the  steel  and  suds. 
1  bulge,  in  a  passion,  stretched  his  angry  jaws, 
Vowing  the  direst  vengeance  with  clenched  claws, 

On  the  vile  cheat  that  sold  the  goods. 
"  Razors  !  a  mean,  confounded  dog, 
Not  tit  to  scrape  a  hog  !  " 

Hodge  sought  the  fellow,  —  found  him,  —  and 

begun  : 
"  P'rhaps,  Master  Razor-rogue,  to  you  't  is  fun, 

That  people  flay  themselves  out  of  their  lives. 
You  rascal  !  for  an  hour  have  1  been  grubbing, 
Giving  my  crying  whiskers  here  a  scrubbing, 

With  razors  just  like  oyster-knives. 


Sirrah  !  I  tell  yon  you  're  a  knav?, 
To  cry  up  razors  that  can't  shave  !  " 

"Friend,"  quoth  I  he  razor-man,    "I  'm  not  a 
knave ; 
As  for  the  razors  you  have  bought, 
Upon  my  soul,  I  never  thought 
That  they  would  sJuive." 

"  Not  think  they  'd  shave  !  "  quoth  Hodge,  with 
wondering  eyes, 
And  voice  not  much  unlike  an  Indian  yell  ; 
"What  were  they  made  for,  then,  you  dog?" 
he  cries. 
"Made,"   quoth  the  fellow  with  a  smile, — 
"to  sell." 

Dr.  Wolcott  (Peter  Pindar). 


THE   NEWCASTLE   APOTHECARY. 

A  man  in  many  a  country  town  we  know, 

Professing  openly  with  death  to  wrestle  ; 
Entering  the  field  against  the  grimly  foe, 

Armed  with  a  mortar  and  a  pestle. 
Yet  some  affirm  no  enemies  they  are, 
But  meet  just  like  prize-fighters  at  a  fair, 
Who  first  shake  hands  before  they  box, 
Then  give  each  other  plaguy  knocks, 

With  all  the  love  and  kindness  of  a  brother  ; 
So,  (many  a  suffering  patient  saith,) 
Though  the  apothecary  fights  with  death, 

Still  they  're  sworn  friends  with  one  another. 

A  member  of  this  Esculapian  race 
Lived  in  Newcastle-upon-Tyne  ; 
No  man  could  better  gild  a  pill, 

Or  make  a  bill, 
Or  mix  a  draught,  or  bleed,  or  blister, 
Or  draw  a  tooth  out  of  your  head, 
Or  chatter  scandal  by  your  bed, 

Or  tell  a  twister. 

Of  occupations  these  were  quantum  suff., 

Yet  still  he  thought  the  list  not  long  enough, 

And  therefore  surgery  he  chose  to  pin  to  't ;  — 

This  balanced  things  ;  for  if  he  hurled 

A  few  more  mortals  from  the  world, 

He  made  amends  by  keeping  others  in  it. 

His  fame  full  six  miles  round  the  country  ran, 

In  short,  in  reputation  he  was  solus; 
All  the  old  women  called  him  "  a  fine  man  !' 
His  name  was  Bolus. 

Benjamin  Bolus,  though  in  trade, 
Which  oftentimes  will  genius  flatter, 

Read  works  of  fancy,  it  is  said, 
And  cultivated  the  belles-lettres. 


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And  why  should  this  he  thought  so  odd  ? 

Can't  men  have  taste  to  cure  a  phthisic  ? 
Of  poetry,  though  patron  god, 

Apollo  patronizes  physic. 

Bolus  loved  verse,  and  took  so  much  delight  in  !t, 
That  his  prescriptions  he  resolved  to  write  in  't ; 

No  opportunity  he  e'er  let  pass 
Of  writing  the  directions  on  his  lahels 
In  dapper  couplets,  — like  Gay's  fables, 

Or  rather  like  the  lines  in  Hudibras. 
Apothecary's  verse  !  —  and  where  's  the  treason  ? 

T  is  simply  honest  dealing,  — ■  not  a  crime  : 
When  patients  swallow  physic  without  reason, 

It  is  but  fair  to  give  a  little  rhyme. 

He  had  a  patient  lying  at  death's  door, 

Some  three  miles  from  the  town,  —  it  might  be 

four,  — 
To  whom,  one  evening,  Bolus  sent  an  article 
In  pharmacy,  that  's  called  cathartical ; 
And  on  the  label  of  the  stuff 

He  wrote  verse, 
Which,  one  would  think,  was  clear  enough, 
And  terse  :  — 

"When  taken, 

To  be  well  shaken." 

Next  morning,  early,  Bolus  rose, 
And  to  the  patient's  house  he  goes, 

Upon  his  pad, 
Who  a  vile  trick  of  stumbling  had  .- 

It  was,  indeed,  a  very  sorry  hack  ; 
But  that  's  of  course,  — 
For  what  's  expected  of  a  horse 

With  an  apothecary  upon  his  back  ? 
Bolus  arrived,  and  gave  a  loudish  tap, 
Between  a  single  and  a  double  rap. 

Knocks  of  this  kind 
Are  given  by  gentlemen  who  teach  to  dance, 
By  fiddlers,  ami  by  opera-singers  ; 

One  luml,  ami  then  a  bill ie  behind, 

As  if  the  knocker  fell  by  chance 

I  >ui  (if  their  fingers. 
The  servanl  lets  him  in  with  dismal  face, 
Long  as  a  courtier's  oul  of  place, 

Portending  some  disaster  ; 
John's  countenance  as  rueful  looked,  and  grim, 
As  if  the  apothecary  hail  physicked  him, 

Ami  nut  lii  i  ma  *ter. 

"  Well,  how  's  the  patienl  .'"  Bolus  said  : 
John  shook  his  hi  ad, 

"  Indeed  :      hum  '      1m  '      that  's  vrv  < m  1  d  ! 
lie  took  tli-  draughl  ' "   John  gave  a  uod. 
"W.ll,    how?  —  whal    then.'     Speak   (Hit,  you 

llllll 

"Why,  then,"  says  John,  "  we  shook  him  once." 


"Shook  him  !  —  how  ? "  Bolus  stammered  out. 
"We  jolted  him  about." 

' '  What !  shake  a  patient,  man  !  —  a  shake  won't 

do." 
"No,  sir,  — and  so  we  gave  him  two." 
"  Two  shakes  !    Foul  nurse, 
'T  would  make  the  patient  worse  ! " 
"  It  did  so,  sir,  —  and  so  a  third  we  tried." 
"Well,  and  what  then  ?  "   "  Then,  sir,  my  mas- 
ter died  ! " 

George  Colman. 


MORNING   MEDITATIONS. 

Let  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  morning  breezy, 
How  well  to  rise  while  nights  and  larks  are  fly- 
ing, — 
For  my  part,  getting  up  seems  not  so  easy 
By  half  as  lying. 

What  if  the  lark  does  carol  in  the  sky, 
Soaring  beyond  the  sight  to  find  him  out,  — 
Wherefore  am  I  to  rise  at  such  a  ily  ? 
I  'm  not  a  trout. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  bees  and  such-like  hums, 
The  smell  of  sweet  herbs  at  the  morning  prime,  — 
Only  lie  long  enough,  and  bed  becomes 
A  bed  of  time. 

To  me  Dan  Thcebus  and  his  car  are  naught, 
His  steeds  that  paw  impatiently  about,  — 
Let  them  enjoy,  say  I,  as  horses  ought, 
The  first  turn-out ! 

Right  beautiful  the  dewy  meads  appear 
Besprinkled  by  the  rosy-fingered  girl  ; 
What  then,  — if  I  prefer  my  pillow-beer 
To  early  pearl  I 

My  stomach  is  not  ruled  by  other  men's, 
And,  grumbling  fur  a  reason,  quaintly  begs 
Wherefore  should  master  rise  before  the  hens 
Have  laid  their  c; 

Why  from  a  comfortable  pillow  start 
To  see  faint  Hushes  in  the  east  awaken  ? 
A  tig,  say  I,  lor  any  streaky  part, 
Excepting  bacon. 

An  early  riser  Mr.  Gray  has  drawn, 
Who  used  to  haste  the  dewy  grass  among, 
;'To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn,"  — 

Well,  -  -  he  died  yoi" 

With  charwomen  such  early  hours  agree, 
Ami  sweeps  thai  earn  betimes  their  bii  and  sup 
But  1  'm  no  climbing  hoy,  ami  need  \< 
All  141,  — all  up  ! 


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■^t.1 


So  here  I  lie,  my  morning  calls  deferring, 
Till  something  nearer  to  the  stroke  of  noon  ;■ 
A  man  that 's  fond  precociously  of  stirring 
Must  be  a  spoon. 


Thomas  hood. 


EARLY  RISING. 

••  Now  blessings  light  on  him  that  first  invented  sleep  !  it  covers 
a  man  all  over,  thoughts  and  all,  like  a  cloak  ;  it  is  meat  for  the 
hungry,  drink  for  the  thirsty,  heat  for  the  cold,  and  cold  for  the 
hot."  —  DON  QUIXOTE.     Part  II.  ch.  67. 

"  God  bless  the  man  -who  first  invented  sleep  ! " 
So  Sancho  Panza  said,  and  so  say  I  ; 

And  bless  him,  also,  that  he  did  n't  keep 
His  great  discovery  to  himself,  nor  try 

To  make  it  —  as  the  lucky  fellow  might  — 

A  close  monopoly  by  patent-right ! 

Yes,  —  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep, 
(I  really  can't  avoid  the  iteration  ; ) 

But  blast  the  man  with  curses  loud  and  deep, 
"Whate'er  the  rascal's  name  or  age  or  station, 

"Who  first  invented,  and  went  round  advising, 

That  artificial  cut-off,  —  Early  Rising  ! 


"  Rise  with  the  lark,  and  with  the  lark  to  bed," 
Observes  some  solemn,  sentimental  owl ; 

Maxims  like  these  are  very  cheaply  said  ; 
But,  ere  you  make  yourself  a  fool  or  fowl, 

Pray  just  inquire  about  his  rise  and  fall, 

And  whether  larks  have  any  beds  at  all ! 

"The  time  for  honest  folks  to  be  abed 
Is  in  the  morning,  if  I  reason  right  ; 

And  he  who  cannot  keep  his  precious  head 
Upon  his  pillow  till  it  's  fairly  light, 

And  so  enjoy  his  forty  morning  winks, 

Is  up  to  knavery,  or  else  —  he  drinks  ! 

Thomson,  who  sung  about  the  "  Seasons,"  said 
It  was  a  glorious  thing  to  rise  in  season  ; 

But  then  he  said  it  —  lying  —  in  his  bed, 
At  ten  o'clock  A.  M.,  — the  very  reason 

He  wrote  so  charmingly.     The  simple  fact  is, 

His  preaching  was  n't  sanctioned  by  his  practice. 

'T  is,  doubtless,  well  to  be  sometimes  awake,  — 
Awake  to  duty,  and  awake  to  truth,  — 

But  when,  alas  !  a  nice  review  we  take 

Of  our  best  deeds  and  days,  we  find,  in  sooth, 

Tire  hours  that  leave  the  slightest  cause  to  weep 

Arc  those  we  passed  in  childhood  or  asleep  ! 

'T  is  beautiful  to  leave  the  world  awhile 
For  the  soft  visions  of  the  gentle  night ; 

And  free,  at  last,  from  mortal  care  or  guile, 
To  live  as  only  in  the  angels'  sight, 

In  sleep's  sweet  realm  so  eoseyly  shut  in, 

Where,  at  the  worst,  we  only  dream  of  sin  ! 


So  let  us  sleep,  and  give  the  Maker  praise. 

I  like  the  lad  who,  when  his  father  thought 
To  clip  his  morning  nap  by  hackneyed  phrase 

Of  vagrant  worm  by  early  songster  caught, 
Cried,  "Served  him  right !  —  it 's  not  at  all  sur- 
prising ; 

The  worm  was  punished,  sir,  for  early  rising  ! " 

John  g.  Saxe. 


SWELL'S  SOLILOQUY. 

I  don't  appwove  this  hawid  waw  ; 

Those  dweadful  bannahs  hawt  my  eyes  ; 
And  guns  and  dwums  are  such  a  baw, — 

Why  don't  the  pawties  compwamise  ? 

Of  cawce,  the  twoilet  has  its  chawms  ; 

But  why  must  all  the  vulgah  cwowd 
Pawsist  in  spawting  unifawms, 

In  cullahs  so  extwemely  loud  ? 

And  then  the  ladies,  —  pwecious  deahs  !  — 
I  mawk  the  change  on  ev'wy  bwow  ; 

Bai  Jove  !     I  weally  have  my  feahs 
They  wathah  like  the  hawid  wow  ! 

To  heah  the  chawming  cweatures  talk, 
Like  patwons  of  the  bloody  wing, 

Of  waw  and  all  its  dawty  wawk,  — 
It  does  n't  seem  a  pwappah  thing  ! 

I  called  at  Mrs.  Gweene's  last  night, 
To  see  her  niece,  Miss  Mawy  Hertz, 

And  found  her  making  —  cwushing  sight  !  — 
The  weddest  kind  of  flannel  shirts  ! 

Of  cawce,  I  wose,  and  sought  the  daw, 
With  fawyah  flashing  from  my  eyes  ! 

I  can't  appwove  this  hawid  waw  ;  — 
Why  don't  the  pawties  compwamise  ? 

ANONYMOUS. 


TOBY  TOSSPOT. 

Alas  !  what  pity  't  is  that  regularity, 

Like  Isaac  Shove's,  is  such  a  rarity  ! 
But  there  are  swilling  wights  in  London  town, 

Termed  jolly  dogs,  choice  spirits,  alias  swine, 
Who  pour,  in  midnight  revel,  bumpers  down, 

Making  their  throats  a  thoroughfare  for  wine. 

These   spendthrifts,    who   life's    pleasures   thu( 
ran  on, 

Dozing  with  headaches  till  the  afternoon, 
Lose  half  men's  regular  estate  of  sun, 

By  borrowing  too  largely  of  the  moon. 


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HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


743 


-ft 


One  of  this  kidney  —  Toby  Tosspot  higlit  — 
Was  coming  from  the  Bedford  late  at  night  ; 
And  being  Bacchi  plenus,  full  of  wine, 
Although  he  had  a  tolerable  notion 
Of  aiming  at  progressive  motion, 
'T  was  n't  direct,  — 't  was  serpentine. 
He  worked  with  sinuosities,  along, 
Like  Monsieur  Corkscrew,   worming  through  a 

cork, 
Not  straight,  like  Corkscrew's  proxy,  stiff  Don 
Prong,  — a  fork. 

At  length,  with  near  four  bottles  in  his  pate, 
He  saw  the  moon  shining  on  Shove's  brass  plate, 
When  reading,  "  Please  to  ring  the  bell," 

And  being  civil  beyond  measure, 
"  Ring  it  ! "  says  Toby,  —  "  very  well ; 

I  '11  ring  it  with  a  deal  of  pleasure." 
Toby,  the  kindest  soul  in  all  the  town, 
Gave  it  a  jerk  that  almost  jerked  it  down. 

He  waited  full  two  minutes,  — no  one  came  ; 

He  waited  full  two  minutes  more  ;  —  and  then 
Sav-<  Toby,  "  If  he  's  deaf,  I  'm  not  to  blame; 

I  Tl  pull  it  for  the  gentleman  again." 

But  the  first  peal  woke  Isaac  in  a  fright, 

Who,  quick  as  lightning,  popping  up  his  head, 
Sat  on  his  head's  antipodes,  in  bed, 

Pale  as  a  parsnip,  —  bolt  upright. 

At  length  he  wisely  to  himself  doth  say,  calming 

his  fears,  — 
"  Tush  !  't  is  some  fool  has  rung  and  run  away  "  ; 
When  peal  the  second  rattled  in  his  ears. 

Shove  jumped  into  the  middle  of  the  floor; 

Ami,  trembling  al  each  breath  of  air  that  stirred, 
He  groped  down  stairs,  and  opened  the  street 
door, 

While  Toby  was  performing  peal  the  third. 

Isaac  eyed  Toby,  fearfully  askant, 

And  saw  he  was  a  strapper,  stout  and  tall ; 

Then  put  this  question,    "Pray,  sir,  what  d'ye 
want?" 
Says  Toby,   "1  want  nothing,  sir,  at  all." 

"Want  nothing  !     sir,  you've  pulled  my  bell,  I 

VOW, 

\    if  you  'd  jerk  it  off  the  wire." 
Quoth  Toby,  gravely  making  him  a  bow, 
"  1  pulled  ii  your  desire." 

"At    mile'"    "Yes,    your--;    I    hope  I  Ve  done 
it  well. 

High  time  for  bed,  sir  ;  I  was  hastening  to  it  ; 
But  if  you  write  up,    '  Please  to  ring  the  I 'ell,' 
( 'on i mon  politeness  makes  me  stop  and  do  it." 

i,e  .  MAN. 


THE  ONE-HOSS   SHAY; 

OR   THE    DEACON'S   MASTERPIECE. 
A    LOGICAL   STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 

I  Tl  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secunclus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somexchere  a  weakest  spot,  — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  —  lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 

And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  tell  ycou") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'  ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldri  break  daown  ; 
—  "Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "'t's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain  ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jesl 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could   find  the  strongest   oak, 

That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — ■ 
That  was  for  Spokes  and   ftoor  and  sills  : 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills  ; 
The  crossbars  weivash,  from  the  straight  est  trees; 
Tie-  panels  of  whitewood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 
Bui  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these  ; 

The   hubs  of  LogS   from    the    "Settler's  elluill,"  — 

Ii  t  of  its  timber,        they  could  n't  sell  'em, 
\ever  an  axi    bad  seen  their  chips, 

Aiel  the  wedges  Hew  from  bit  ween  their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 

Step  and  prop-iron,   bolt  ami  screw, 

Spring,  tiie,  axle,  ami  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 


<&- 


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744 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


4 


Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide  ; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through."  — 
"There!  '  said  the  Deacon,  "  naow  she  '11  dew  ! " 

Do  !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren,  —  where  M'ere  they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

Eighteen  hundred  ;  —  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ;  — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came  ;  — 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

"Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(Tins  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November,  — the  Earthquake-day.  — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 

But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 

There  eould  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 

And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 

Ami  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 

And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 

In  another  hour  it  will  be  icorn  out  I 

First  (if  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 

Here  (nines  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  hay. 

"  Huddup  !"  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went  they. 

The  parson  whs  working  his  Sunday's  text,  — ■ 

Ibid  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  th.'  horse  stood  still, 

by  the  meet'n' -house  on  the  hill. 
—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 


And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half  past  nine  by  the  nieet'n'drouse  clock,  — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

—  What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground  ! 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 


End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 

That 's  all  I  say. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


Logic  is  logic. 


RAILROAD   RHYME. 

Singing  through  the  forests, 

Rattling  over  ridges ; 
Shooting  under  arches, 

Rumbling  over  bridges  ; 
Whizzing  through  the  mountains, 

Buzzing  o'er  the  vale,  — 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

Riding  on  the  rail ! 

Men  of  different  "  stations  " 

In  the  eye  of  fame, 
Here  are  very  quickly 

Coming  to  the  same  ; 
High  and  lowly  people, 

Birds  of  every  feather, 
On  a  common  level, 

Travelling  together. 

Gentleman  in  'shorts, 

Looming  very  tall ; 
Gentleman  at  large, 

Talking  very  small  ; 
Gentleman  in  tights, 

With  a  loose-ish  mien  ; 
Gentleman  in  gray, 

Looking  rather  green  ; 

Gentleman  quite  old, 

Asking  for  the  news  ; 
Gentleman  in  black, 

In  a  fit  of  blues  ; 
Gentleman  in  claret, 

Sober  as  a  vicar  ; 
Gentleman  in  tweed, 

Dreadfully  in  liquor  ! 

Stranger  on  the  right 

Looking  very  sunny, 
Obviously  reading 

Something  rather  funny. 


— £ 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


a 


745 


Now  the  smiles  are  thicker,  — 
Wonder  what  they  mean  ? 

Faith,  lie  's  got  the  Knicker- 
bocker Magazine  ! 

Stranger  on  the  left 

Closing  up  his  peepers  ; 
Now  he  sin  ires  amain, 

Like  the  Seven  Sleepers  ; 
At  his  feet  a  volume 

Gives  the  explanation, 
How  the  man  grew  stupid 

From  "Association  !  " 

Ancient  maiden  lady 

Anxiously  remarks, 
That  there  must  be  peril 

'Mong  so  many  sparks  ; 
Roguish-looking  fellow, 

Turning  to  the  stranger, 
Says  it 's  his  opinion 

She  is  out  of  danger  ! 

"Woman  with  her  baby, 

Sitting  vis-a-vis  ; 
Baby  keeps  a-squalling, 

Woman  looks  at  me  ; 
Asks  about  the  distance, 

Says  it 's  tiresome  talking, 
Noises  of  the  ens 

Are  so  very  shocking  ! 

Market-woman,  careful 

Of  the  precious  casket, 
Knowing  eggs  are  eggs, 

Tightly  holds  her  basket  ; 
Feeling  that  a  smash, 

If  ii  came,  would  surely 
Send  her  eggs  to  pot, 

Rather  prematurely. 

Singing  through  the  forests, 

[tattling  over  ridges  ; 
Shooting  under  arches, 

Rumbling  *>\ er  bridges  ; 
Whizzing  through  the  mountains, 

Buzzing  o'er  the  vale,  — 
Bless  me  '  this  is  pleasant, 

Riding  on  the  rail  ! 

JOHN  G.  SAXE. 


THE    HAIL. 

I  MET  him  in  the  i 

Where  resignedly  he  sat  ; 
His  hair  was  lull  of  dust, 

And     o  \va-  at ; 


He  was  furthermore  embellished 
By  a  ticket  in  his  hat. 

The  conductor  touched  his  arm, 
And  awoke  him  from  a  nap  ; 

When  he  gave  the  feeding  flies 
An  admonitory  slap, 

And  his  ticket  to  the  man 
In  the  yellow-lettered  cap. 

So,  launching  into  talk, 
We  rattled  on  our  way, 

With  allusions  to  the  crops 

That  along  the  meadows  lay,  — 

W  hereupon  his  eyes  were  lit 
With  a  speculative  ray. 

The  heads  of  many  men 
Were  bobbing  as  in  sleep, 

And  many  babies  lifted 
Their  voices  up  to  weep  ; 

While  the  coal-dust  darkly  fell 
On  bonnets  in  a  heap. 

All  the  while  the  swaying  cars 
Kept  rumbling  o'.er  the  rail, 

And  the  frequent  whistle  sent 
Shrieks  of  anguish  to  the  gale, 

And  the  cinders  pattered  down 
On  the  grimy  tloor  like  hail. 

When  suddenly  a  jar, 

And  a  thrice-repeated  bump, 
Made  the  people  in  alarm 

From  their  easy  cushions  jump  ; 
For  they  deemed  the  sounds  to  be 

The  inevitable  trump. 

A  splintering  crash  below, 
A  doom-foreboding  twitch, 

As  the  tender  gave  a  lurch 
Beyond  the  flying  sw  itch,  — 

And  a  mangled  mass  of  men 
Lay  writhing  in  the  ditch. 

With  a  palpitating  heart 
My  friend  essayed  to  rise  ; 

There  were  bruises  on  his  limbs 
Ami  stars  before  his  eyes, 

And  his  face  was  of  the  hue 
Of  the  dolphin  when  it  dies. 

i   was  \eiy  Well  eoiitelit 

In  escaping  with  my  life  ; 
Bui  my  mui ilated  fi  tend 

<  !ommenced  a  legal  strife,  — 
Being  thereunto  incited 

By  his  lawyer  and  his  wife. 


-ff 


a 


746 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


And  he  writes  me  the  result, 
In  his  quiet  way  as  follows  : 

That  his  case  came  up  before 
A  bench  of  legal  scholars, 

"Who  awarded  him  his  claim, 
Of  §1500! 


George  H.  Clark. 


SALLY  SIMPKIN'S   LAMENT; 
or,  john  jones's  kit-cat-astrophe. 

"  He  left  his  body  to  the  sea, 
And  made  a  shark  his  legatee." 

Bryan  and  Perenne. 

"  0  WHAT  is  that  comes  gliding  in, 

And  quite  in  middling  haste  ? 
It  is  the  picture  of  my  Jones, 

And  painted  to  the  waist. 

It  is  not  painted  to  the  life, 

For  where 's  the  trousers  blue  ? 
0  Jones,  my  dear  !  —  0  dear  !  my  Jones, 

"What  is  become  of  you  ?" 

"  0  Sally  dear,  it  is  too  true,  — 

The  half  that  you  remark 
Is  come  to  say  my  other  half 

Is  bit  off  by  a  shark  ! 

"  0  Sally,  sharks  do  things  by  halves, 

Yet  most  completely  do  ! 
A  bite  in  one  place  seems  enough, 

But  I  've  been  bit  in  two. 

"You  know  I  once  was  all  your  own, 

But  now  a  shark  must  share  ! 
But  let  that  pass,  —  for  now  to  you 

I  'm  neither  here  nor  there. 

"Alas  !  death  has  a  strange  divorce 

Effected  in  the  sea  : 
It  has  divided  me  from  you, 

And  even  me  from  me  ! 

"  Don't  fear  my  ghost  will  walk  o'  nights 

To  haunt,  as  people  say  ; 
My  ghost  can't  walk,  for,  0,  my  legs 

Are  many  leagues  away  ! 

"Lord  !  think  when  I  am  swimming  round, 

Ami  looking  where  the  boat  is, 
A  shark  just  snaps  away  a  half, 

"Without  '  a  quarters  notice.' 

"  One  half  is  here,  the  other  half 

Is  near  Columbia  placed  ; 
0  Sally,  I  have  got  the  whole 

Atlantic  for  my  waist. 


"  But  now,  adieu,  — a  long  adieu  ! 

I  've  solved  death's  awful  riddle, 

And  would  say  more,  but  I  am  doomed 

To  break  off  in  the  middle  !  " 

Thomas  Hood. 


FAITHLESS   SALLY   BROWN. 

AN    OLD    BALLAD. 

Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young  man, 

A  carpenter  by  trade  ; 
And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 

That  was  a  lady's  maid. 

But  as  they  fetched  a  walk  one  day, 

They  met  a  press-gang  crew  ; 
And  Sally  she  did  faint  away, 

Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words 

Enough  to  shock  a  saint, 
That,  though  she  did  seem  in  a  fit, 

'T  was  nothing, but  a  feint. 

"  Come,  girl,"  said  he,  "hold  up  your  head, 

He  '11  be  as  good  as  me  ; 
For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat 

A  boatswain  he  will  be." 

So  when  they  'd  made  their  game  of  her, 

And  taken  off  her  elf, 
She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 

A  coming  to  herself. 

"And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone  ?  " 

She  cried  and  wept  outright ; 
"  Then  I  will  to  the  water-side, 

And  see  him  out  of  sight." 

A  waterman  came  up  to  her  ; 

"  Now,  young  woman,"  said  he, 
"  If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 

Eye-water  in  the  sea." 

"  Alas  !  they  've  taken  my  beau,  Ben, 

To  sail  with  old  Benbow  "  ; 
And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh, 

As  if  she  'd  said,  Gee  woe  ! 

Says  he,  "  They  've  only  taken  him 

To  the  tender-ship,  you  see." 
"  The  tender-ship,"  cried  Sally  Brown,  — 

"  What  a  hard-ship  that  must  be  !  " 

"  0,  would  I  were  a  mermaid  now, 

For  then  I  'd  follow  him  ! 
But  0,   I  'm  not  a  fish-woman, 

And  so  I  cannot  swim. 


ta- 


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HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


747 


ft 


"  Alas  !   I  was  not  born  beneath 

The  Virgin  and  the  Scales, 
So  1  must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 

And  walk  about  in  "Wales." 

Now  Ben  had  sailed  to  many  a  place 

That 's  underneath  the  world  ; 
But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home, 

And  all  her  sails  were  furled. 

But  when  he  called  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  she  got  on, 
He  found  she  'd  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian-name  was  John. 

"  0  Sally  Brown  !  0  Sally  Brown  ! 

How  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 
I  've  met  with  many  a  breeze  before, 

But  never  such  a  blow  !  " 

Then,  reading  on  his  'bacco  box, 

He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  "All 's  Well  ! " 
But  could  not,  though  he  tried  ; 

His  head  was  turned,  —  and  so  he  chewed 
His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  death,  which  happened  in  his  berth, 

At  forty-odd  befell  ; 
They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 

The  sexton  tolled  the  bell. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


FAITHLESS   NELLY   GRAY. 

A    PATHETIC    BALLAD. 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 
And  used  to  war's  alarms  ; 

But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms. 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "  Le1  others  shoot ; 

For  here  I  leave  my  s< ml  Leg, 

And  tin-  Forty-second  Foot." 

The  army-siurgeons  made  him  limbs  : 
Said  lie,  "They  're  only  pegs  ; 

But  there  's  as  wooden  members  unite, 
As  represenl  my  legs." 

N"\v  I'.en  lie  loved  b  pretty  maid, — 
Her  name  was  Nelly  I Iray  ; 

Bo  lie  went  to  pay  her  Ids  devours, 
When  he  devoured  his  nay. 


But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a  scoff  ; 
And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 

Began  to  take  them  off. 

"  0  Nelly  Gray  !  0  Nelly  Gray  ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform." 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave  ; 
But  1  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave. 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes 

Your  love  I  did  allow  ; 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footing  now." 

"  0  Nelly  Gray  !  0  Nelly  Gray  ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 

In  Badajos's  breaches." 

"Why,  then, "said she,  "  you've  lost  the  feet 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms !  " 

"0  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray  ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse  : 
Though  I  've  no  feet,  some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes. 

"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face  ; 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell  ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death  ;  —  alas  ! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell  !  " 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray 

His  heart  so  heavy  gut, 
And  life  was  such  a  burden  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot. 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  intwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line. 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs  ; 
And,  as  his  legs  were  .ill',  —  of  course 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs. 

And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town  ; 
For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down. 


[B- 


— o 


[fl- 


748 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  rind  out  why  he  died,  — 

And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

With  a  stake  in  his  inside. 

Thomas  Hood. 


A  LEGEND   OF  A   SHIRT. 

I  sixg  of  a  Shirt  that  never  was  new  ! 

In  the  course  of  the  year  Eighteen  hundred  and  two 

Aunt  Fanny  began, 

Upon  Grandmamma's  plan, 
To  make  one  for  me,  then  her  "  dear  little  man." 
At  the  epoch  I  speak  about,  I  was  between 

A  man  and  a  boy, 

A  hobble-de-hoy, 
A  fat,  little,  punchy  concern  of  sixteen,  — 

Just  beginning  to  flirt 

And  ogle,  —  so  pert, 
I  'd  been  whipt  every  day  had  I  had  my  desert,  — 
And  Aunt  Fan  volunteered  to  make  me  a  shirt ! 

I  've  said  she  began  it,  — 
Some  unlucky  planet 
No  doubt  interfered,  —  for,  before  she  and  Janet 
Completed  the  "cutting-out,"  "hemming,'''  and 

"stitching," 
A  tall  Irish  footman  appeared  in  the  kitchen  ; 
This  took  off  the  maid,  — 
And  I  'm  sadly  afraid 
My  respected  Aunt  Fanny's  attention,  too,  strayed ; 
For,  about  the  same  period,  a  gay  son  of  Mars, 
Cornet  Jones  of  the  Tenth  (then  the  Prince's) 
Hussars, 
With  his  fine  dark  eyelashes, 
And  finer  mustaches, 
And  the  ostrich  plume   worked  on   the   corps' 

sabre-taches, 
She  had  even  resolved  to  say  "Yes"  should  he 

ask  it, 
And  I  —  and  my  Shirt  —  were  both  left  in  the 
basket. 

To  her  grief  and  dismay 

She  discovered  one  day 
Cornet  Jones  of  the  Tenth  was  a  little  too  gay  ; 
For,  besides  that  she  saw  him  —  he  could  not 

say  nay  — 
"Wink  at  one  of  the  actresses  capering  away 
In  a  Spanish  bolero,  one  night  at  the  play, 
She  found  he  'd  already  a  wife  at  Cambray  ; 
One  at  Paris,  —  a  nymph  of  the  corps  de  ballet ; 
And  a  third  down  in  Kent,  at  a  place  called  Foot's 
Cray. 

He  was  "viler  than  dirt  !  " 

Fanny  vowed  to  exert 
All  her  powers  to  forget  him,  —  and  finish  my 
Shirt. 


But,  0,  lack-a-day  ! 
How  time  slips  away  !  — ■ 
Who  'd  have  thought  that  while  Cupid  was  play- 
ing these  tricks 
Ten  years  had  elapsed,  and  —  I'd  turned  twenty- 
six  ? 

"  I  care  not  a  whit, 

He  's  not  grown  a  bit," 
Says  my  Aunt ;  "  it  will  still  be  a  very  good  fit." 

So  Janet  and  She, 

Now  about  thirty-three, 
(The  maid  had  been  jilted  by  Mr.  Magee,) 
Each  taking  one  end  of  "  the  Shirt "  on  her  knee, 
Again  began  working  with  hearty  good- will, 
"Felling  the  Seams, ' '  and ' '  whipping  the  Frill, " — 
For,  twenty  years  since,  though  the  Ruffle  had 

vanished, 
A  Frill  like  a  fan  had  by  no  means  been  banished  ; 
People  wore  them  at  playhouses,  parties,  and 

churches, 
Like  overgrown  fins  of  overgrown  perches. 

Now,  then,  by  these  two  thus  laying  their  caps 
Together,  my  "  Shirt  "had  been  finished,  perhaps, 
But  for  one  of  those  queer  little  three-cornered 

straps, 
Which  the   ladies  call  "Side-bits,"  that  sever 

the  "Flaps"  ; 
Here  unlucky  Janet 
Took  her  needle,  and  ran  it 
Right  into  her  thumb,  and  cried  loudly,  "Ads 

cuss  it  ! 
I've  spoiled  myself  now  bythat'erenastyGusset !" 

For  a  month  to  come 
Poor  dear  Janet's  thumb 
Was  in  that  sort  of  state  vulgar  people  call  "Rum." 
At  the  end  of  that  time, 
A  youth,  still  in  his  prime, 
The  Doctor's  fat  Errand-boy — just  such  a  dolt 

as  is 
Kept  to  mix  draughts,  and  spread  plasters  and 

poultices, 
Who  a  bread-cataplasm  each  morning  had  carried 

her  — 
Sighed,  —  ogled,  — proposed,  — was  accepted, — 
and  married  her  ! 

Ten  years,  or  nigh, 

Had  again  gone  by, 
When  Fan,  accidentally  casting  her  eye 
On  a  dirty  old  work-basket,  hung  up  on  high 
In  the  store-closet  where  herbs  were  put  by  to  dry, 
Took  it  down  to  explore  it,  — she  didn't  know  why. 

Within,  a  pea-soup-colored  fragment  she  spied, 
Of  the  hue  of  a  November  fog  in  Cheapside, 
Or  a  bad  piece  of  gingertuead  spoilt  in  the  baking. 


ta- 


tS- 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


749 


I  still  hear  her  cry,  — 
"  I  wish  I  may  die 
If  here  is  n't  Tom's  Shirt,  that 's  heen  so  long 
amakin" ! 

O 

My  gracious  me  ! 
Well,  —  only  to  see  ! 
I  declare  it 's  as  yellow  as  yellow  can  he  ! 
Why,  it  looks  just  as  though  't  had  been  soaked 
in  green  tea  ! 
Dear  me,  did  you  ever  ?  — 
But  come,  't  will  be  clever 
To  bring  matters  round  ;  so  I  '11  do  my  endeavor. 
'  Better  Late, '  says  an  excellent  proverb,  '  than 

Never  ! ' 
It  is  stained,  to  be  sure,  but  '  grass-bleaching ' 

will  bring  it 
To  rights  '  in  a  jiffy. '  We  '11  wash  it,  and  wring  it  ; 
Or,  stay, — 'Hudson's  Liquor' 
Will  do  it  still  quicker, 
And —  "  Here  the  newmaidchimedin,  "  Ma'am, 

Salt  of  Lemon 
Will  makeitjin  no  time,  quite  fit  for  the  Gemman  ! " 
So  they  "set  in  the  gathers,"  —  the  large  round 

the  collar, 
While  those  at   the  wristbands  of  course  were 

much  smaller,  — 
The  button-holes  now  were  at  length  "overcast." 
Then  a  button  itself  was  sewn  on, — 'twas  the 
last ! 

All 's  done  ! 

All  \s  won  ! 

Never  under  the  sun 
Was  Shirt  so  late  finished,  so  early  begun  ! 

The  work  would  defy 

The  most  critical  eye. 
It  was  "bleached," — it  was  washed, — it  was 

hung  <>ut  to  dry,  — 
It  was  marked  on  the  tail  with  a  T,  and  an  I  ! 

On  the  back  of  a  chair  it 

YV;,-  placed,  — just  to  air  it, 
In  front  of  the  fire.  —  "Tom  to-morrow  shall 

wear  it  ! " 
0  ccrxa.  rnevs  i  .' —  Fanny,  good  soul, 

Left  her  charge  for  our  moment,  — hut  one,  — a 

vile  coal 

Bounced  out  from  the  grate,  and  set  fire  to  the 

Wnole  I       Richard  Harris  Barham. 
(Thomas  Ingoldsuy,  esq.) 


MISDAVENTURES    AT   MARGATE. 

A   LEGEND  or"  JARVIS'S  JETTY. 
MR.    SIMPKIN80N    (loquil 

I  was  in  Margate  last  July,  1 1  dkedupon  t  he  pier, 

I  saw  a  little  \  y,  —  I  said,  "What  make 

you  hei 


The  gloom   upon  your   youthful    cheek    speaks 

anything  but  joy"  ; 
Again  I  said,  "  What  make  you  here,  you  little 

vulgar  Boy  ? " 
He  frowned,  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  —  he  deemed 

I  meant  to  scoff,  — 
And  when  the  little  heart  is  big,  a  little  "sets 

it  off." 
He  put  his  ringer  in  his  mouth,  his  little  bosom 

rose,  — 
He  had  no  little  handk  erchief  to  wipe  his  little  nose ! 

"Hark  !  don't  you  hear,  my  little  man?  — it's 

striking  Nine,"  1  said, 
"An  hour  when  all  good  little  boys  and  girls 

should  be  in  bed. 
Run  home  and  get  your  supper,  else  your  Ma 

will  scold,  —  0  lie  ! 
It 's  very  wrong  indeed  for  little  boys  to  stand 

and  cry  !  " 

The  tear-drop  in  his  little  eye  again  began  to  spring, 
His  bosom  throbbed  with  agony,  —  he  cried  like 

anything  ! 
I  stooped,  and  thus  amidst  his  sobs  I  heard  him 

murmur,  —  "Ah  ! 
I  have  n't  got  no   supper  !  and  I   have  n't  got 

no  Ma  !  "  — 

"My  father,  he  is  on  the  seas,  —  my  mother's 

dead  and  gone  ! 
And  I  am  here,  on  this  here  pier,  to  roam  the 

world  alone  ; 
I  have  not  had,  this  livelong  day,  one  drop  to 

cheer  my  heart, 
Nor  '  broivn  '  to  buy  a  bit  of  bread  with,  —  let 

alone  a  tart. 

"  If  there 's  a  soul  will  give  me  food,  or  find  me 

in  employ, 
By  day  or  night,  then  blow  me  tight  !  "  (he  was 

a  vulgar  Boy  ;) 
"And  now  I  'm  here,  from  this  here  pier  it  is 

my  fixed  intent 
To  jump  as  Mister  Levi  did  from  off  the  Monu- 
ment !" 

"Cheer  up  !  cheer  up  !  my  little  man,  —  cheer 

up  !  "   I  kindly  said, 
"You  are  a  naughty  boy  to  take  such  things  into 

your  head  ; 
If  you  should  jump  from  off  the   pier,    you'd 

surely  break  your  legs, 
Perhaps  your  neck,  —  then  Bogey 'd  have  you, 

sure  as  eggs  are  eggs  ! 

"Come  home   with   me,  my  little   man,  come 

home  \\  itli  me  and  sup; 
My  landlady  is  Mrs.  Jones,  — we  must  not  keep 

her  up,  — 


fcr 


fl- 


750 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


t 


There's  roast  potatoes  at  the  fire,  —  enough  for 

me  and  you,  — 
Come  home,  you  little  vulgar  Boy,  —  I  lodge  at 

Number  2." 

I  took  him  home  to  Number  2,  the  house  beside 

"  The  Foy," 
I  bade  him  wipe  his  dirty  shoes,  —  that  little 

vulgar  Boy,  — 
And  then  I  said  to  Mistress  Jones,  the  kindest  of 

her  sex, 
"Pray  be  so   good  as  go  and  fetch  a  pint  of 

double  X  !  " 

But  Mrs.  Jones  was  rather  cross,  she  made  a  little 
noise, 

She  said  she  "did  not  like  to  wait  on  little  vul- 
gar Boys." 

She  with  her  apron  wiped  the  plates,  and,  as  she 
rubbed  the  delf, 

Said  I  might  "go  to  Jericho,  and  fetch  my  beer 
myself  ! " 

I  did  not  go  to  Jericho,  —  I  went  to  Mr.  Cobb, — 
I  changed  a  shilling  (which  in  town  the  people 

call  a  Bob, )  — 
It  was  not  so  much  for  myself  as  for  that  vulgar 

child,  — 
And  I  said,  "  A  pint  of  double  X,  and  please  to 

draw  it  mild  !  " 

When  I  came  back  I  gazed  about,  —  I  gazed  on 
stool  and  chair,  — 

I  could  not  see  my  little  friend,  because  he 
was  not  there  ! 

I  peeped  beneath  the  table-cloth,  beneath  the 
sofa  too,  — 

I  said,  "  You'ittle  vulgar  Boy  !  why,  what's  be- 
come of  yrou  ? " 

I  could  not  see  my  table-spoons,  —  I  looked,  but 

could  not  see 
The  little  fiddle-patterned  ones  I  use  when  I  'm 

at  tea ; 
I   could   not   see   my   sugar  -  tongs,    my    silver 

watch,  —  0,  dear  ! 
I  know  't  was  on  the  mantel-piece  when  I  went 

out  for  beer. 

I  could  not  see  my  Macintosh,  —  it  was  not  to  be 

seen  ! 
Nor  yet  my  hest  white  beaver  hat,  broad-brimmed 

and  lined  with  green  ; 
My  carpet-bag,  —  my  cruet-stand,  that  holds  my 

sauce  and  soy,  — 
My  roast  potatoes  ! —  all  are  gone! — and  so 's 

that  vulgar  Boy  ! 


I  rang  the  bell  for  Mrs.  Jones,  for  she  was  down 

below, 
"  0  Mrs.  Jones,  what  do  you  think  ?  —  ain't  this 

a  pretty  go  ? 
That  horrid  little  vulgar  Boy  whom  I  brought 

here  to-night 
He 's  stolen  my  things  and  run  away  ! "    Says 

she,  "And  sarve  you  right  !  " 

Next  morning  I  was  up  betimes,  —  I  sent  the 

Crier  round, 
All  with  his  bell  and  gold-laced  hat,  to  say,  I  'd 

give  a  pound 
To  find  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  who  'd  gone  and 

used  me  so  ; 
But  when  the  Crier  cried,  "  0  Yes  !  "  the  people 

cried,  "  0  No  !  " 

I  went  to  "  Jarvis'  Landing-place,"  the  glory  of 

the  town, 
There  was  a  common  sailor-man  a  walking  up  and 

down, 
I  told  my  tale,  —  he  seemed  to  think  I  'd  not 

been  treated  well, 
And  called  me  "  Poor  old  Buffer  !  "  — what  that 

means  I  cannot  tell. 

That  Sailor-man,  he  said  he  'd  seen  that  morning 

on  the  shore, 
A  son  of —  something  —  't  was  a  name  I  'd  never 

heard  before,  — 
A  little    "gallows-looking   chap"  —  dear    me, 

what  could  he  mean  ?  — 
With  a    "carpet-swab"   and    "  mucking-togs," 

and  a  hat  turned  up  with  green. 

He  spoke  about  his  "  precious  eyes,"  and  said 

he  'd  seen  him  "  sheer,"  — 
It  's  very  odd  that  Sailor-men  should  talk  so 

very  queer  ; 
And  then  he  hitched  his  trousers  up,  as  is,  I  'm 

told,  their  use,  — 
It 's  very  odd  that  Sailor-men  should  wear  those 

things  so  loose. 

I  did  not  understand  him  well,  but  think  he  meant 

to  say 
He  'd  seen  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  that  morning, 

swim  away 
In  Captain  Large's  Royal  George,  about  an  hour 

before, 
And  they  were  now,  as  he  supposed,  "somew^em" 

about  the  Nore. 

A  landsman  said,  "  I  txcig  t\ie  chap,  — he  's  been 

upon  the  Mill,  — 
And  'cause  he  gammons  so  the  flats,  ve  calls  him 

Veeping  Bill  1  " 


--B3 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


751 


-a 


He  said  "  he  'd  done  me  werry  brown,"  and  nicely 
"  stowed  the  swag,"  — 

That 's  French,  I  fancy,  for  a  hat,  or  else  a  carpet- 
hag. 

I -went  andtoldthe  constable  my  property  to  track  ; 
He  asked  me  it"  "I  did  not  wish  that  I  might  get 

it  back." 
I  answered,  "  To  be  sure  I  do  !  —  it 's  what  I  'm 

come  about." 
He  smiled  and  said,    "Sir,  does  your  mother 

know  that  you  are  out  ? " 

Not  knowing  what  to  do,  I  thought  I  'd  hasten 

back  to  town, 
And  beg  our  own  Lord  Mayor  to  catch  the  boy 

who  'd  "done  me  brown." 
His  Lordship  very  kindly  said  he  'd  try  and  find 

him  out, 
But  he  "  rather  thought  that  there  were  several 

vulgar  boys  about." 

He  sent  for  Mr.  WMthair  then,  and  I  described 

"  the  swag," 
My  Macintosh,  my  sugar-tongs,  my  spoons,  and 

carpet- bag  ; 
He  promised  that  the  New  Police  should  all  their 

powers  employ, 
But  never  to  this  hour  have  I  beheld  that  vulgar 

Boy! 

MORAL. 

Remember,  then,  what  when  a  boy  I  've  heard 
my  Grandma  tell, 

"BE  WARNED  IN  TIME  BY  OTHERS'  HARM,  AND 
rOTJ  SHALL  DO  FULL  WELL  !" 

Don't  link  yourself  with  vulgar  folks,  who've  got 

no  fixed  abode, 
Tell  li    .  u  e  naughty  words,  ami  say  they  "wish 

they  may  be  blowed  !  " 

Don't  take  too  much  of  double  X  !  —  and  don't 
d1  night  go  out 

To  fetch  your  ben-  yourself,  but  make  the  pot- 
boy bring  your  stout  ! 

And  when  you  goto  Margate  next,  just  stop,  and 
ring  the  bell, 

Give  my   respects   to  Mrs.   Jones,  and   say  I 'm 

t  y  well  ! 

Richard  Harris  Barham. 
(Thomas  Ingolusby,  Esq.) 


"LOOK    AT   THE   CLOCK  1" 
FTTTB    I. 

"Look  al  tie'  Clock  '"  quoth  Winifred  Pryce, 
\    she  opened  the  door  to  her  husband's  knock, 

Then  paused  to  give  l''"1  a  piece  of  advice, 
"  You  nasty  Warmint,  look  at  the  Clock  ! 


Is  this  the  way,  you 

Wretch,  every  day  you 
Treat  her  who  vowed  to  love  and  obey  you  ?  — 

Out  all  night  ! 

Me  in  a  fright ; 
Staggering  home  as  it 's  just  getting  light  ! 
You  intoxified  brute  !  —  you  insensible  block  !  — 
Look  at  the  Clock  !  —  Do  !  —  Look  at  the  Clock !  " 

"Winifred  Pryce  was  tidy  and  clean, 
Hergown  was  a  flowered  one,  her  petticoat  green, 
Her  buckles  were  bright  as  her  milking-cans, 
And  her  hatwasa  beaver,  and  made  like  a  man's  ; 
Her  little  red  eyes  were  deep  set  in  their  socket- 
holes, 
Her  gown-tail  was  turned  up,  and  tucked  through 
the  pocket-holes  ; 

A  face  like  a  ferret 

Betokened  her  spirit : 
To  conclude,  Mrs.  Pryce  was  not  over  young, 
Had  very  short  legs,  and  a  very  long  tongue. 

Now  David  Pryce 

Had  one  darling  vice  ; 
Remarkably  partial  to  anything  nice, 
Naught  that  was  good  to  him  came  amiss, 
Whether  to  eat,  or  to  drink,  or  to  kiss  ! 

Especially  ale,  — 

If  it  was  not  too  stale 
I  really  believe  he  'd  have  emptied  a  pail ; 

Not  that  in  Wales 

They  talk  of  their  Ales  ; 
To  pronounce  the  word  they  make  use  of  might 

trouble  you, 
Being  spelt  with  a  C,  two  Rs,  and  a  W. 

That  particular  day, 

As  I  've  heard  people  say, 
Mr.  David  Pryce  had  been  soaking  his  clay, 
And  amusing  himself  with  las  pipe  and  cheroots, 
The  whole  afternoon  at  the  Goat-in-Boots, 

With  a  couple  more  soakers, 

Thoroughbred  smokers, 
Both,  like  himself,  prime  singers  and  jokers; 
And,  long  after  day  hid  drawn  to  a  close, 
And  the  rest  of  the  world  was  wrapped  in  repose, 
They  were  roaring  out   "  Shenkin  !  "  and  "Ar 

hydd  y  nos "  ; 
While  David  himself,  to  a  Sassenach  tune, 
Sang,    "We've    drunk    down    the    Sun,   boys! 
let  \s  drink  down  the  Moon  ! 

What  have  we  with  day  to  do? 

Mrs.  Winifred  Pryce,  'twas  made 
tor  you  !  "  — 
At  length,  when  they  could  n't  well  drink  anymore, 
old  "Goat-in-Boots"  showed  them  the  door; 

And  then  came  that  knock, 

Allil  the  selisililc  -hock 


t- 


±P 


[& 


752 


1HMOUOUS    POEMS. 


David  felt  when  his  wife  cried,  "  Look  at  the 

Clock  :  '■ 
Forthehandsstoodascrookedascrookedmight  be, 
Thelongat  the  Twelve,  and  the  shortatthe  Three! 

That  self-same  clock  had  long  been  a  bone 
Of  contention  between  this  Darby  and  Joan  ; 
And  often,  among  their  pother  and  rout, 
"When  this  otherwise  amiable  couple  fell  out, 

Pryce  would  drop  a  cool  hint 
With  an  ominous  squint 

At  its  case,  of  an    "Uncle"  of  his,  who'd   a 
"Spout." 
That  horrid  word  "Spout" 
No  sooner  came  out, 

Than  Winifred  Pryce  would  turn  her  about, 
And  with  scorn  on  her  lip, 
And  a  hand  on  each  hip, 

"  Spout  "  herself  till  her  nose  grew  red  at  the  tip, 
"You  thundering  Willin, 
1  know  you'd  be  killing 

Your  wife  — ay,  a  dozen  of  wives  —  forashilling  ! 
You  may  do  what  you  please, 
You  may  sell  my  chemise, 

(Mrs.  T.  was  too  well  bred  to  mention  her  stock,) 

But  I  never  will  part  with  my  Grandmother's 
Clock  !  " 

Mrs.  Pryce's  tongue  ran  long  and  ran  fast ; 
But  patience  is  apt  to  wear  out  at  last, 
l  >avid  Pryce  in  temper  was  quickj 
So  he  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  caught  hold 

of  a  stick. 
Perhaps  in  its  use  he  might  mean  to  he  lenient, 
But  walking  just  then  wasn't  very  convenient, 

So  he  threw  it,  instead, 

Direct  at  her  head  ; 

It  knocked  offher  hat  ; 

Down  she  fell  Hat  ; 
Her  case,  perhaps,  was  not  much  mended  by  that ; 
But  whatever  it  was,  —  whether  rage  and  pain 
Produced  apoplexy,  or  burst  a  vein, 
Or  her  tumble  induced  a  concussion  of  brain, 
i      n't  say  for  certain,  — but  this  I  can, 
When,  sobered  by  fright,  to  assist  her  he  ran, 
.Mrs.  Winifred  Pryce  was  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne. 

And  then  came  Mr.  Ap  Thomas,  the  Coroner, 

With  his  jury  to  sit,  some  dozen  or  more,  on  her. 
Mr.  Pryce,  to  commence 
His  "ingenious  defence," 

Made  a  "powerful  appeal"  to  the  jury's  "good 
sense,"  — 
The  unlucky  lick 
From  the  end  of  his  stick 

He  "deplored,"  —  he  was  "apt  to  he  rather  too 
•k  "  ; 
But,  really,  her  prating 
"Was  so  aggravating  : 


Some  trilling  correct  ion  was  j  ust  what  he  meant ;  — 

all 
The  rest,  he  assured  them,  was  "quite  accidental !" 

The  jury,  in  fine,  having  sat  on  the  body 

The  whole  day,  discussing  the  ease  and  gin  toddy, 

Returned  about  half  past  eleven  at  night 

The  following  verdict,  ' '  We  find,  Sarvc  her  right  I" 

Mr.  David  has  since  had  a  "  serious  call," 
He  never  drinks  ale,  wine,  or  spirits,  at  all, 
And  they  say  he  is  going  to  Exeter  Hall 
To  make  a  grand  speech, 
And  to  preach  and  to  teach 
People  that  "they  can't  brew  their  malt  liquor 

too  small  ! " 
That  an  ancient  Welsh  Poet,  one  Pyndar  ap 

Tudor, 
Was  right  in  proclaiming  "  Ariston  men  Udor  !" 
Which  means  "The  pure  Element 
Is  for  Man's  belly  meant  !  " 
And  that  Gin 's  but  a  Snare  of  Old  Nick  the  de- 
luder ! 

And  "still  on  each  evening  when  pleasure  fills 

up," 

At  the  old  Goat-in-Boots,  with  Metheglin,  each 

cup, 

Mr.  Pryce,  if  he  's  there, 

Will  get  into  "The  Chair," 

And  make  all  his  quondam  associates  stare 

By  calling  aloud  to  the  Landlady's  daughter, 

"Patty,  bring  a  cigar,  and  a  glass   of   Spring 

Water !  " 

The  dial  he  constantly  watches  ;  and  when 

The  long  hand 's  at  the  "XII,"  and  the  short  at 

the  "X," 

He  gets  on  his  legs, 

Drains  his  glass  to  the  dregs, 

Takes  his  hat  and  great-coat  off  their  several  pegs, 

With   his  President's  hammer  bestows  his  last 

knock, 

And  says  solemnly,  —  ' '  Gentlemen  !    Look  at 

the  Clock  !  !  ! " 

Richard  Harris  Barham. 
(Thomas  Inc;oldsby,  Esq.) 


THE  JACKDAW  OF   RHEIMS. 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair  I 
Bishop  and  abbot  and  prior  were  there  ; 

Many  a  monk,  and  many  a  friar, 

Many  a  knight,  and  many  a  squire, 
With  a  great  many  more  of  lesser  degree,  — 
In  sooth,  a  goodly  company  ; 
And  they  served  the  Lord  Primate  on  bended  knee. 

Never,  I  ween, 

Was  a  prouder  seen, 


a 


-p- 


HUM0B0U8   POEMS. 


iry/, 


.  of  in  books,  or 
Than  the  Cardinal  Lord  Archbishop  of  Rhrima  ! 

Jn  and  out 

out, 
That  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about  : 

Here  and  th 

Like  a  dog  in  a  fair, 
-r  comfits  and  cal 

And  dishes  and  pla- 
Cowl  and  cope,  and  rochet  and  pall  ! 
Mitre  and  crosier  !  he  hopped  upon  all. 

With  a  saucy  air, 

He  perched  on  the  chair 
WL  '  Lord  Cardinal  sat, 

In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  red  hat ; 

And  he  peered  in  the  face 

Of  his  Lordship 
With  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  he  would  say, 
"  We  Two  are  thi    i  '.  folks  here  to-day  !  " 

And  the  priests,  with  a 
rach  freaks  tl. 
Said,  ' '  The  Devil  must  be  in  that  little  Jackdaw ! ' 

ard  was  cleared, 

ilawns  and  the  custards  had  all  disapp 
And  six  lirt'.  ys  —  dear  little  souls 

In  .--  nd  nice  white  stoles  — 

le,  in  order  due, 
two, 
Marching  and  refectory  through  ! 

I  a  golden  ev 
EmVjssf-d  and  filled  with  wal  ;re 

As  any  that  !'  and  2s  arnur, 

Whi 
In  a  fine  golden  hand-ba-in  made  to  match. 

i  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  grown, 
Carrie<l  .  .-water  and  eau  d •  Cologn 

And  a  ni  had  a  nice  cake  of  soap, 

Worthy  of  v. •■•         :  the  hand-  of  t. 
One  litl  .ore 

A  napkin  bore, 
Of  the1  'per,  fri:  b  pink, 

And  a  Cardinal's  Hat  markedin  "permanent  ink." 

irdinal  turns  at  the  sight 
Of  these  nice  d  all  in  white  ; 

From  hi  aws 

II:- 
And,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  Jackdaws, 

I'.-    ■  '  <te, 

While  tl  wait  ; 

Till,  wh  iny  such  thing, 

•  with  the  rinj 

Tl.  ry  and  a  shout, 

And  a  deuce  of  a  rout, 


And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they  're  about, 
But  the  monk-,  have  their  |  all  turned  in- 

The  friars  are  kneel; 

And  hunting  and  feeling 
The  carpet,  the  floor,  and  the  walls,  and  the  cei 

The  Cardinal  drew 

Off  each  pi  urn -colored  shoe, 
Arid  left  his  red  stock:    \  to  the  v; 

He  peeps,  and  !. 

In  tl  ind  the  h 

They  turn  up  the  dishes, — they  turn  up  the 
plates,  — 
vake  up  the  poker  and  poke  out  the  grates, 

—  They  turn  up  the  rt  e 

They  examine  the  m 

But,  no  !  —  no  such  thing,  — 

They  can't  find  the  RIKG  .' 
And   the   ..  declared  that  "when   nobody 

twigged  it, 
Some  rascal  or  other  had  popped  in  and  prigged  it ! " 

ardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  1 
.    .  for  his  candl  11,  and  his  book  ! 

In  holy  anger  and  pious  grief 
lie  solemn!-  I  ally  thief ! 

lb:  cursed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him  in 
From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the 
He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  even.-  nl_ 
I  J  ■■  should  dream  of  the  de  vil,and  wake  in  a  f  i 
He  cursed  him  in  eating,   he  cursed   him  in 

drinki 
He  him  in  i  :.  in 

winkir  a 
He  cursed  him  i:.  in  standing,  in  1; 

He  cursed  him  in  walking,  in  riding,  in  flying  ; 
He  cursed  him  living,  he  cursed  him  dying  I  — 
ird  such  a  terrible  cu. 
But  what  gave  : 
To  no  little  sur] 
Nobody  seemed  one  penny  the  won 

The  day  was  gone, 
ime  on, 
The  Monks  and  the  Friars  tl  I  ill  dawn ; 

When  t'.  *an  saw, 

On  en::  lw, 

Come  limping  a  p  lame  Ja 

>>"'■ 

Hi-,  f  turned  the  v 

■■  — 
His]  could  ha'  1,  — 

His  1. 

Hi-  Lim, 

That,  hee  .         I  grammar,  they  all  cried,  "That 
'a  him  !  — 


& 


-B3 


a 


754 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


That 's  the  scamp  that  has  done  this  scandalous 

thing, 
That 's  the  thief  that  has  got  my  Lord  Cardinal's 
Ring  ! " 

The  poor  little  Jackdaw, 

When  the  Monks  he  saw, 
Feehly  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw  ; 
And  turned  his  bald  head  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Pray  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  way  !  " 

Slower  and  slower 

He  limped  on  before, 
Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry-door, 

Where  the  first  thing  they  saw, 

Midst  the  sticks  and  the  straw, 
"Was  the   ring,  in  the  nest  of  that  little  Jack- 
daw ! 

Then  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  called  for  his  book, 
And  oil'  that  terrible  curse  he  took  ; 

The  mute  expression 

Served  in  lieu  of  confession, 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full  restitution, 
The  Jackdaw  got  plenary  absolution  ! 

—  When  those  words  were  heard, 

That  poor  little  bird 
Was  so  changed  in  a  moment,  't  was  really  absurd : 

He  grew  sleek  and  fat ; 

In  addition  to  that, 
A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a  mat ! 

His  tail  waggled  more 

Even  than  before  ; 
But  no  longer  it  wagged  with  an  impudent  air, 
No  longer  he  perched  on  the  Cardinal's  chair. 

He  hopped  now  about 

With  a  gait  devout  ; 
At  Matins,  at  Vespers,  he  never  was  out ; 
Ami,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds, 
He  always  seemed  telling  the  Confessor's  beads. 
If  any  one  lied,  or  if  any  one  swore, 
Or  slumbered  in  prayer-time  and  happened  to 
snore, 

That  good  Jackdaw 

Would  give  a  great  "  Caw  !  " 
As  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  do  so  any  more  ! " 
While  many  remarked,  as  his  manners  they  saw, 
That  they  "  never  had  known  such  a  pious  Jack- 
daw!" 

He  long  lived  the  pride 

Of  that  country  side, 
And  at  last  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  died  ; 

When,  as  words  were  too  faint 

1 1  i  >  merits  to  paint, 
The  Conclave  determined  to  make  him  a  Saint. 
Andon  newly  made  Saints  and  Popes,  asyou  know, 
It 's  the  custom  at  Rome  new  names  to  bestow, 
So  they  canonized  him  by  the  name  of  Jem  Crow  ! 
Richard   Harris   Barham. 
(Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.) 


I   AM   A   FRIAR   OF  ORDERS   GRAY. 

I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray, 

And  down  in  the  valleys  I  take  my  way  ; 

I  pull  not  blackberry,  haw,  or  hip,  — 

Good  store  of  venison  fills  my  scrip  ; 

My  long  bead-roll  I  merrily  chant  ; 

Where'er  I  walk  no  money  I  want  ; 

And  why  I  'm  so  plump  the  1  eason  I  tell,  — 

Who  leads  a  good  life  is  >-ure  to  live  well. 
What  baron  or  squire, 
Or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 

After  supper  of  heaven  I  dream, 
But  that  is  a  pullet  and  clouted  cream  ; 
Myself,  by  denial,  I  mortify  — 
With  a  dainty  bit  of  a  warden -pie  ; 
I  'm  clothed  in  sackcloth  for  my  sin,  — 
With  old  sack  wine  I  'm  lined  within  ; 
A  chirping  cup  is  my  matin  song, 
And  the  vesper's  bell  is  my  bowl,  ding  dong. 
What  baron  or  sipiire, 
Or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 
John  O'Keefe. 


THE  VICAR  OF  BRAY. 

["  The  Vicar  of  Bray  in  Berkshire,  England,  was  Simon  Alleyn.or 
Allen,  and  held  his  place  from  1540  to  15S8.  He  was  a  Papist  under 
the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  a  Protestant  under  Edward  the 
Sixth.  He  was  a  Papist  again  under  Mary,  and  once  more  became 
a  Protestant  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  When  this  scandal  to  the 
gown  was  reproached  for  his  versatility  of  religious  creeds,  and 
taxed  for  being  a  turn-coat  and  an  inconstant  changeling,  as  Fuller 
expresses  it,  he  replied  :  "  Not  so,  neither  ;  for  if  I  changed  my 
religion,  1  am  sure  I  kept  true  to  my  principle,  which  is  to  live  and 
die  the  Vicar  of  Bray."  —  D'ISRAELI. 

The  idea  seems  to  have  been  adapted  to  some  changelings  of  a 
later  date.  In  a  note  in  Nichols's  "  Select  Poems,"  17S2,  Vol.  VIII. 
p.  234,  it  is  stated  that  "  the  song  of  the  Vicar  of  Bray  "  is  said 
to  have  been  written  by  an  officer  in  Colonel  Fuller's  regiment,  in 
the  reign  of  King  George  the  First.  It  is  founded  on  an  historical 
fact ;  and  though  it  reflects  no  great  honor  on  the  hero  of  the  poem, 
is  humorously  expressive  of  the  complexion  of  the  times,  in  the  suc- 
cessive reigns  from  Charles  the  Second  to  George  the  First."] 

In  good  King  Charles's  golden  days, 

When  loyalty  no  harm  meant, 
A  zealous  high-churchman  was  I, 

And  so  I  got  preferment. 
To  teach  my  flock  I  never  missed  : 

Kings  were  by  God  appointed, 

And  lost  are  those  that  dare  resist 

Or  touch  the  Lord's  anointed. 

And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 
That  ivhatsoever  king  shall  reign, 
Still  I'll  be  tlie  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

When  royal  James  possessed  the  crown, 
And  popery  grew  in  fashion, 


& 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


755 


ft 


The  penal  laws  I  hooted  down, 

And  read  the  declaration  ; 
The  Church  of  Koine  I  found  would  fit 

Full  well  my  constitution  ; 
And  I  had  been  a  Jesuit 

But  for  the  revolution. 
And  this  is  law  tliat  I'll  maintain,  etc. 

When  William  was  our  king  declared, 

To  ease  the  nation's  grievance  ; 
With  this  new  wind  about  I  steered, 

And  swore  to  him  allegiance  ; 
Old  principles  I  did  revoke, 

Set  conscience  at  a  distance  ; 
Passive  obedience  was  a  joke, 

A  jest  was  non-resistance. 

And  this  is  laio  that  I'll  maintain,  etc. 

"When  royal  Anne  became  our  queen, 

The  Church  of  England's  glory, 
Another  face  of  things  was  seen, 

And  I  became  a  Tory  ; 
Occasional  conformists  base, 

I  blamed  their  moderation  ; 
And  thought  the  church  in  danger  was, 

By  such  prevarication. 

And  this  is  law  that  I'll  maintain,  etc. 

When  George  in  pudding-time  came  o'er, 

And  moderate  men  looked  big,  sir, 
My  principles  I  changed  once  more, 

And  so  became  a  Whig,  sir  ; 
And  thus  preferment  I  procured 

From  our  new  faith's  (''■fender  ; 
And  almost  every  day  abjured 

The  pope  and  the  pretender. 

And  this  is  law  tlu.it  I'll  maintain,  etc. 

The  illustrious  house  of  Hanover, 

And  Protestant  succession, 
To  these  I  do  allegiance  swear  — 

While  they  can  keep  possession  : 
For  in  my  faith  and  loyalty 

I  nevermore  will  falter, 
And  George  my  lawful  king  shall  be  — 

Until  the  times  do  alter. 

Alld  r /us  is  bur  Hint  I'll  iihiiii/iii/i,  etc. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   KNIGHT   AND   THE   LADY. 

A    DOMESTIC    I.EGRND    OF    THE    REIGN   OF   QUEEN    ANNE. 

"  Hail,  wedded  love  !  m  tie  '.  " 

Thomson  —  or  Somebody. 

'I'm  i    Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 

The  Lady  .lane  was  fair, 
And  Sir  Thomas,  her  lord,  was  stoul  of  limb, 
And  his  cough  was  slum,  and  his  eyes  were  dim, 


And  he  wore  green    "specs,"  with  a  tortoise- 
shell  rim, 
And  his  hat  was  remarkably  broad  in  the  brim, 
And  she  was  uncommonly  fond  of  him,  — 
And  they  were  a  loving  pair  !  — 
And  the  name  and  the  fame 
Of  the  Knight  and  his  Dame, 
Were  everywhere  hailed  with  the  loudest  acclaim. 

Now  Sir  Thomas  the  Good, 
Be  it  well  understood, 
Was  a  man  of  very  contemplative  mood,  — 
He  would  pore  by  the  hour, 
O'er  a  weed  or  a  flower, 
Or  the  slugs    that  come    crawling  out  after   a 

shower ; 
Black-beetles  and  Bumble-bees,  Blue-bottle  flies 
And   Moths,  were  of  no  small   account  in  his 

eyes  ; 
An  "Industrious  Flea"  he  'dby  no  means  despise, 
While  an  "Old  Daddy-long-legs,"  whose  "long 

legs  "  and  thighs 
Passed  the  common  in  shape  or  in  color  or  size, 
He  was  wont  to  consider  an  absolute  prize. 
Well,  it  happened  one  day,  — 
I  really  can't  say 
The   particular  month  ;   but  I   think  't  was  in 

May,  — 
'T   was,    I   know,    in   the   Springtime,  —  when 

"  Nature  looks  gay," 
Asthe  Poet  observes,  —  and  on  tree-top  and  spray 
The  dear  little  dickey-birds  carol  away  ; 
When  the  grass  is  so  green,  and  the  sun  is  so 

bright, 
And  all  things  are  teeming  with  life  and  with 

light,  — 
That  the  whole  of  the  house  was  thrown  into 

affright, 
For  no  soul  could  conceive  what  was  gone  with 
the  Knight ! 

It  seems  he  had  taken 
A  light  breakfast,  —  bacon, 
An  egg,  --  wit  ha  little  broiled  haddock,  —  at  most 
A  round  and  a  half  of  some  hot  buttered  toast, 
With  a  slice  of  cold  sirloin  from  yesterday's  roast. 
And  then  —  let  me  see  !  — 
He  had  two,  perhaps  three, 
Cups  (with  sugar  and  cream)  of  strong  gunpowder 

tea, 
With  a  spoonful  in  each  of  some  choice  eaude  vie,  — 
Which  with  nine  out  of  ten  would  perhaps  dis- 
agree. — 
In  fact,   I  and  my  son 
Mix  ••  black  "  with  our  "  lh  son," 
Neither  having  the  nerves  of  a  hull  or  a  bison, 
And   both    hating  brandy  like   what    some   call 
"pison." 


-4 


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756 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


i 


No  matter  for  that,  — 
He  had  called  for  his  hat, 
With  the  brim  that  I  've  said  was  so  broad  and 

so  Hat, 
And  his  "specs"  with  the  tortoise-shell  rim, 

and  his  cane 
With  the  crutch-handled  top,  which  he  used  to 

sustain 
1 1  is  steps  in  his  walks,  and  to  poke  in  the  shrubs 
And  the  grass,  when  unearthing  his  worms  and 

his  grubs. 
Thus  armed,  he  set  out  on  a  ramble,  —  alack  ! 
He  set  out,  poor  dear  soul  !  —  but  he  never  came 

back  ! 

The  morning   dawned,  —  and   the   next,  —  and 

the  next, 
And  all  in  the  mansion  were  still  perplexed  ; 

Up  came  running  a  man,  at  a  deuce  of  a  pace, 
With  that  very  peculiar  expression  of  face 
"Which  always  betokens  dismay  or  disaster, 
Crying  out, — 'twas  the  gardener,  —  "0  Ma'am  ! 

we  've  found  Master  !  " 
"Where?   where?"    screamed   the   lady;    and 
Echo  screamed,   "  Where  ? " 
The  man  could  n't  say  "  There  ! " 
He  had  no  breath  to  spare, 
But,  gasping  for  air,  he  could  only  respond 
By  pointing, — he  pointed,  alas  !  to  the  pond. 
'T  was  e'en  so, — poor  dear  knight! — with  his 

"  specs  "  and  his  hat- 
He  'd  gone  poking  his  nose  into  this  and  to  that, 
When,  close  to  the  side 
Of  the  bank,  he  espied 
An  "uncommon  fine"  tadpole,  remarkably  fat  ! 
.  He  stooped  ;  —  and  he  thought  her 
His  own  ;  —  he  had  caught  her ! 
Got  hold  of  her  tail,  — and  to  land  almost  brought 

her, 
When  —  he  plumped  head  and  heels  into,  fifteen 
feet  water  ! 

The  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 

The  Lady  Jane  was  fair, 
Alas,  f<  >r  Sir  Thomas !  — she  grieved  for  him. 
As  she  saw  two  serving-men,  sturdy  of  limb, 
His  body  between  them  bear  : 
She  sobbed  and  she  sighed,  she  lamented  and 
cried, 
For  of  sorrow  brimful  was  her  cup  ; 
She  swooned,  and  I  think  she  'd  have  fallen  down 
and  died 
If  Captain  MacBride 
Had  not  been  by  her  side, 
With  the  gardener  ;  they  both  their  assistance 
supplied, 
And  managed  to  hold  her  up. 


But,  when  she  "  comes  to," 
0,   't  is  shocking  to  view 
The  sight  which  the  corpse  reveals  ! 
Sir  Thomas's  body, 
It  looked  so  odd,  — he 
Was  half  eaten  up  by  the  eels  ! 
His   waistcoat   and   hose,   and   the   rest  of  his 
,     clothes, 
Were  all  guawled  through  and  through  ! 
And  out  of  each  shoe 
An  eel  they  drew  ; 
And  from  each  of  his  pockets  they  pulled   out 

two  ! 
And  the  gardener  himself  had  secreted  a  few, 

As  well  we  may  suppose  ; 
For  when  he  came  running  to  give  the  alarm 
He  had  six   in  the   basket  that  hung  on   his 
arm. 

Good  Father  John 

Was  summoned  anon  ; 

Holy  water  was  sprinkled, 

And  little  bells  tinkled, 

And  tapers  were  lighted, 

And  incense  ignited, 
And  masses  were  sung,  and  masses  Avere  said, 
All  day,  for  the  quiet  repose  of  the  dead, 
And  all  night  no  one  thought  about  going  to  bed. 

But  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim, 
And  Lady  Jane  was  fair,  — 
And,  ere  morning  came,  that  winsome  dame 
Had  made  up  her  mind,  —  or  what's  much  the 

same, 
Had  tlwught  about — once  more   "changing  her 
name." 
And  she  said,  with  a  pensive  air, 
To  Thompson  the  valet,  while  taking  away, 
When   supper    was    over,    the    cloth   and   the 
tray,  — 
"  Eels  a  many 
I  've  ate  ;  but  any 
So  good  ne'er  tasted  before  !  — 
They  're  a  fish,  too,  of  which  I  'm  remarkably 

fond.  — 
Go,  pop  Sir  Thomas  again  in  the  pond  ; 

Boor     dear  !  —  he  'll    catch     us    some 

MORE  !  " 

Richard  Harris  Barham. 
(Thomas  I.ngoldsby. 


SIR  MARMADUKE. 

Sir  Marmaduke  was  a  hearty  knight,  — 

Good  man  !  old  man  ! 
He 's  painted  standing  bolt  upright, 

With  his  hose  rolled  over  his  knee  ; 


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HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


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His  periwig  's  as  white  as  chalk, 
And  on  his  fist  he  holds  a  hawk  ; 
And  he  looks  like  the  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

His  dining-room  was  long  and  wide,  — 

Good  man  !  old  man  ! 
His  spaniels  lay  by  the  fireside  ; 

And  in  other  parts,  d'  ye  see, 
Cross-bows,  tobacco-pipes,  old  hats, 
A  saddle,  his  wife,  and  a  litter  of  cats  ; 

And  he  looked  like  the  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

He  never  turned  the  poor  from  the  gate,  — 

i  rood  man  !  old  man  ! 
But  was  always  ready  to  break  the  pate 

Of  his  country's  enemy. 
What  knight  could  do  a  better  thing 
Than  serve  the  poor  and  fight  for  his  king  ? 

And  so  may  every  head 

Of  an  ancient  family. 

George  Colman. 


LITTLE   BREECHES. 

A    PIKE   COUNTY   VIEW  OF   SPECIAL    PROVIDENCE. 

I  DON'T  go  much  on  religion, 

I  never  ain't  bad  no  show  ; 
But  I  've  got  a  middlin'  tight  grip,  sir, 

On  the  handful  o'  things  I  know. 
I  don't  pan  out  on  the  prophets 

And  free-will,  and  that  sort  of  tiling, — 
But  I  b'lieve  in  God  and  the  angels, 

Ever  sence  one  night  last  spring. 

I  come  into  town  with  some  turnips, 

And  my  little  Gabe  come  along, — 
No  four-year-old  in  the  county 

Could  beal  him  for  pretty  and  strong, 
Pearl  and  chipper  and  sassy, 

Alwaj's  ready  to  swear  and  light,  — 
And  I  M  larnt  him  ter  chaw  terbacker, 

Jesl  to  keep  Ids  milk-teeth  white. 

The  snow  eoi lown  like  a  blanket 

As  I  passed  by  Taggart's  store  ; 
I  went  in  for  a  jug  of  mola 

And  left  the  team  at  the  door. 
They  scared  a1  something  and  Btarted,  — 

1  heard  little  squall, 

Ami  hell-to-split  over  the  prairie 

Went  team,  Little  Breeches  and  all. 


Hell-to-split  over  the  prairie  ! 

I  was  almost  froze  with  skeer  ; 
But  we  rousted  up  some  torches, 

And  sarched  for  'em  far  and  near. 
At  last  we  struck  hosses  and  wagon, 

Snowed  under  a  soft  white  mound, 
Upsot,  dead  beat,  —  but  of  little  Gabe 

Kb  hide  nor  hair  was  found. 


And  here  all  hope  soured  on  me 
Of  my  fellow-critter's  aid,  — 

I  jest  flopped  down  on  my  marrow-bones, 
Crotch-deep  in  the  snow,  and  prayed. 

***** 

By  this,  the  torches  was  played  out, 

And  me  and  Isrul  Parr 
Went  off  for  some  wood  to  a  sbeepfold 

That  he  said  was  somewhar  thar. 


We  found  it  at  last,  and  a  little  shed 

Where  they  shut  up  the  lambs  at  night. 
We  looked  in,  and  seen  them  huddled  thar, 

So  warm  and  sleepy  and  white  ; 
And  tiiau  sot  Little  Breeches  and  chirped, 

As  peart  as  ever  you  see, 
"I  want  a  chaw  of  terbacker, 

And  that  's  what  's  the  matter  of  me." 


How  did  he  <A{  thar  ?     Angels. 

He  could  never  have  walked  in  that  storm. 
They  jest  scooped  down  and  toted  him 

To  whar  it  was  safe  and  warm. 
And  I  think  that  saving  a  little  child, 

And  bringing  him  to  Ids  own, 
Is  a  denied  sight  better  business 

Than  loafing  around  The  Throne. 

John  Hay. 


THE    COMET. 

THE  comet  !  be  is  on  his  way, 

And  singing  as  lie  Hies  ; 
The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 

The  spectre  of  the  skies. 
Ali,   well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue, 

And  satellites  turn  pale,  — 
Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 

Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail  ! 

On.  on  by  whistling  spheres  of  light, 
Hi'  flashi  9  and  he  Barnes  ; 

}\i   turns  m>t  to  the  left  nor  right, 
II. •  asks  tlirm  not  their  names. 


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HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


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One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel,  — ■ 

Away,  away  they  fly, 
Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up 

And  sold  for  "  Tyrian  dye." 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land, 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ? 
Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil, 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam  ; 
Methought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream  ! 

I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube 

The  comet's  course  to  spy  ; 
I  heard  a  scream,  —  the  gathered  rays 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye  ! 
I  saw  a  fort,  —  the  soldiers  all 

Were  armed  with  goggles  green  ; 
Pop  cracked  the  guns  !  whiz  flew  the  balls  ! 

Bang  went  the  magazine  ! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment  in  a  tub  ; 
I  read  upon  the  warping  back, 

"  The  Dream  of  Beelzebub'." 
He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn, 

Although  his  brain  was  fried, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried. 

I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  roll  down 

The  crackling,  sweating  pines, 
And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 

Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines. 
I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made 

Such  noise  about  the  town  ; 
They  answered  not,  but  all  the  while 

The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw-  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg  ; 
I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg. 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother's  gosling  fell 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coal. 

I  saw  the  ox  that  browsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays, 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze  ; 
I  saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine  ; 
And  thoughts  of  supper  crossed  my  soul,  — 

I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 


Strange  sights  !  strange  sounds  !  0  fearful  dream ! 

Its  memory  haunts  me  still, 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare, 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill ; 
Stranger,  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep, 

Spare,  spare,  0  spare  thine  evening  meal, 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  si  *ep  ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


SPRING. 


A    FRAGMENT. 


In  the  merry  month  of  May  the  jocund  bee  pro- 
claims the  spring, 

The  verdant  fields  give  hopes  of  hay,  the  house-fly 
now  is  on  the  wing, 

The  nettle  now  puts  forth  her  charms,  the  thistle 
tempts  the  patient  ass, 

Black  beetles  walk  about  in  swarms,  and  from 
the  kitchens  upward  pass. 

PUNCH- 


THE   LAWYER'S   INVOCATION   TO 
SPRING. 

Whereas,  on  certain  boughs  and  sprays 
Now  divers  birds  are  heard  to  sing, 

And  sundry  flowers  their  heads  upraise, 
Hail  to  the  coming  on  of  Spring  ! 

The  songs  of  those  said  birds  arouse 
The  memory  of  our  youthful  hours, 

As  green  as  those  said  sprays  and  boughs, 
As  fresh  and  sweet  as  those  said  flowers. 

The  birds  aforesaid  —  happy  pairs  — 

Love,  'mid  the  aforesaid  boughs,  inshrines 

In  freehold  nests  ;  themselves  their  heirs, 
Administrators,  and  assigns. 

0  busiest  term  of  Cupid's  Court, 

Where  tender  plaintiffs  actions  bring,  — 

Season  of  frolic  and  of  sport, 

Hail,  as  aforesaid,  coming  Spring  ! 

H.   P.    H.   BROWNELL. 


DOUBLE   BLESSEDNESS. 

FROM    "MISS   KILMANSEGG." 

0,  happy,  happy,  thrice  happy  state, 
When  such  a  bright  Planet  governs  the  fate 

Of  a  pair  of  united  lovers  ! 
'T  is  theirs,  in  spite  of  the  Serpent's  hiss, 
To  enjoy  the  pure  primeval  kiss 
With  as  much  of  the  old  original  bliss 

As  mortality  ever  recovers  ! 


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There  's  strength  in  double  joints,  no  doubt, 

In  Double  X  Ale,  and  Dublin  Stout, 

That  the  single  sorts  know  nothing  about,  — 

And  a  list  is  strongest  when  doubled,  — 
And  double  aqua-fortis,  of  course, 
And  double  soda-water,  perforce, 

Are  the  strongest  that  ever  bubbled  ! 

There  's  double  beauty  whenever  a  Swan 
Swims  on  a  Lake  with  her  double  thereon  ; 
And  ask  the  gardener,  Luke  or  John, 

Of  the  beauty  of  double-blowing,  — 
A  double  dahlia  delights  the  eye  ; 
And  it 's  far  the  loveliest  sight  in  the  sky 

When  a  double  rainbow  is  glowing  ! 

There 's  warmth  in  a  pair  of  double  soles, 
As  well  as  a  double  allowance  of  coals,  — 

In  a  coat  that  is  double-breasted,  — 
In  double  windows  and  double  doors, 
And  a  double  U  wind  is  blest  by  scores 

For  its  warmth  to  the  tender- chested. 

There 's  a  twofold  sweetness  in  double  pipes, 
And  a  double  barrel  and  double  snipes 

Give  the  sportsman  a  duplicate  pleasure  : 
There  's  double  safety  in  double  locks  ; 
And  double  letters  bring  cash  for  the  box  ; 
And  all  the  world  knows  that  double  knocks 

Are  gentility's  double  measure. 

There  's  a  double  chuck  at  a  double  chin, 

And  of  course  there's  a  double  pleasure  therein, 

It'  the  parties  were  brought  to  telling  : 
And  however  our  Dennisses  take  offence, 
A  double  meaning  shows  double  sense  : 

And  if  proverbs  tell  truth, 
A  double  tooth 
Is  "Wisdom's  adopted  dwelling. 

But  double  wisdom,  and  pleasure,  and  sense, 
Beauty,  respect,  strength,  comfort,  and  thence 

Through  whatever  |  hi'  list  discovers, 
They  are  all  in  the  double  blessedness  summed, 
Of  whal  was  formerly  double-drummed, 

The  Marriage  of  two  true  Lovers  ! 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


Himself  he  boards  and  lodges  ;  both  invites 
And  feasts  himself ;  sleeps  with  himself  o'  nights. 
He  spares  the  upholsterer  trouble  to  procure 
Chattels ;  himself  is  his  own  furniture, 
And  his  sole  riches      Wheresoe'er  he  roam  — 

Knock  when  you  will  —  he  's  sure  to  be  at  home. 

Charles  Lamb. 


THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 
The  frugal  snail,  with  forecast  of  repose, 

Carries  his  house  with    him   where'er    he  goes  ; 

Peeps  out,     -and  if  there  comes  a  shower  of  rain, 
Retreats  to  his  small  domicile  again. 

Touch  hut  a  tiji  of  him,  a  horn,  -     't  is  well,  — 

He  curls  up  in  hi-  sanctuary  Shell, 

ll<-  's  his  own  Landlord,  his  own  tenant  ;  sl.iy 

Long  as  lie  will,  he  dreads  no  Quarter  Day. 


NEWTON'S   PRINCIPIA. 

Great  Newton's  self,  to  whom  the  world  'sin  debt, 
Owed  to  School  Mistress  sage  his  Alphabet ; 
But  quickly  wiser  than  his  Teacher  grown, 
Discovered  properties  to  her  unknown  ; 
Of  A  plus  B,  or  minus,  learned  the  use, 
Known  Quantities  from  unknown  to  educe  ; 
And  made  —  no  doubt  to  that  old  dame's  sur- 
prise — 
The  Christ-Cross-Row  his  ladder  to  the  skies. 
Yet,  whatsoe'er  Geometricians  say, 

Her  lessons  were  his  true  Principia  ! 

Charles  Lamb. 


THE   EGGS   AND   THE   HORSES. 
a  matrimonial  epic. 

John  Dobbins  was  so  captivated 
By  Mary  Trueman's  fortune,  face,  and  cap, 
(With  near  two  thousand  pounds  the  hook  was 

baited,) 
That  in  he  popped  to  matrimony's  trap. 

One  small  ingredient  towards  happiness, 
It  seems,  ne'er  occupied  a  single  thought ; 

For  his  accomplished  bride 

Appearing  well  supplied 
With  the  three  charms  of  riches,  beauty,  dress, 

He  did  not,  as  he  ought, 

Think  of  aught  else ;  so  no  inquiry  made  he 
As  to  the  temper  of  the  lady. 

Ami  here  was  certainly  a  great  omission  ; 
None  should  accepl  of  Hymen's  gentle  letter, 

"  For  worse  or  better," 
Whatever  he  their  prospect  or  condition, 
Without  acquaintance  with  each  other's  nature  • 

For  many  a  mild  and  quiel  creature 
Of  charming  disposition, 
Alas!  by  thoughtless  marriage  has  destroyed  it. 

So  take  advice  ;    let   girls  dress  e'er  SO  tastily, 

I  lon'1  enter  into  wedlock  hastily 
Unless  you  can'1  avoid  it. 

Week  followed  week,  and,   it   inn  -t   he  confest, 

The  bridegroom  and  the  bride  had  both  been 

blest  : 


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HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


Month  after  month  had  languidly  transpired, 
Both  parties  became  tired  : 
Year  after  year  dragged  on  ; 
Their  happiness  was  gone. 

Ah  !  foolish  pair  ! 

"  Bear  and  forbear  " 

Should  be  the  rule  for  married  folks  to  take. 

But  blind  mankind  (poor  discontented  elves  !) 

Too  often  make 

The  misery  of  themselves. 

At  length  the  husband  said,  ' '  This  will  not  do  ! 
Mary,  1  never  will  be  ruled  by  you  : 

So,  wife,  d'  ye  see  ? 
To  live  together  as  we  can't  agree, 
Suppose  we  part  !  " 
With  woman's  pride, 
Mary  replied, 

"With  all  my  heart  !" 

John  Dobbins  then  to  Mary's  father  goes, 

And  gives  the  list  of  his  imagined  woes. 

"Dear  son-in-law  !  "  the  father  said,  "I  see 
All  is  quite  true  that  you  've  been  telling  me  ; 
Yet  there  in  marriage  is  such  strange  fatality, 

That  when  as  much  of  life 

You  will  have  seen 

As  it  has  been 
My  lot  to  see,  I  think  you  '11  own  your  wife 
As  good  or  better  than  the  generality. 

' '  An  interest  in  your  case  I  really  take, 
And  therefore  gladly  this  agreement  make  : 
An  hundred  eggs  within  this  basket  lie, 
With  which  your  'uck,  to-morrow,  you  shall  try ; 
Also  my  five  best  horses,  with  my  cart  ; 
And  from  the  farm  at  dawn  you  shall  depart. 
All  round  the  country  go, 
And  be  particular,  I  beg  ; 

Where  husbands  rule,  a  horse  bestow, 

But  where  the  wives,  an  egg. 
And  if  the  horses  go  before  the  eggs, 
I  '11  ease  you  of  your  wife,  —  I  will,  —  I  fegs  !  " 

Away  the  married  man  departed, 
Brisk  and  light-hearted  : 
Not  doubting  that,  of  course, 
The  first  five  houses  each  would  take  a  horse. 
At  the  first  house  he  knocked, 
He  felt  a  little  shocked 
To  hear  a  female  voice,  with  angry  roar, 
Scream  out,  —  "  Hullo  ! 
Who  's  there  below  ? 
Why,  husband,  are  you  deaf?  go  to  the  door, 
See  who  it  is,  I  beg." 

Our  poor  friend  John 
Trudged  quickly  on, 


But  first  laid  at  the  door  an  egg. 


I  will  not,  all  his  journey  through 
The  discontented  traveller  pursue  ; 
Suffice  it  here  to  say 
That  when  his  first  day's  task  was  nearly  done, 
He  'd  seen  an  hundred  husbands,  minus  one, 
And  eggs  just  ninety-nine  had  given  away. 
"Ha  !  there  's  a  house  where  he  I  seek  must 

dwell," 
Atlength  cried  John;  "I'll  go  andringthe  bell." 

The  servant  came,  —  John  asked  him,  ' '  Pray, 
Friend,  is  your  master  in  the  way  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  w:ith  smiling  phiz, 
' '  My  master  is  not,  but  my  mistress  is  ; 
Walk  in  that  parlor,  sir,  my  lady  's  in  it : 
Master  will  be  himself  there — in  a  minute." 
The  lady  said  her  husband  then  was  dressing, 
And,  if  his  business  was  not  very  pressing, 
She  would  prefer  that  he  should  wait  until 
His  toilet  was  completed; 
Adding,  "Pray,  sir,  be  seated." 
"Madam,  I  will," 
Said  John,  with  great  politeness  ;   "but  I  own 
That  you  alone 
Can  tell  me  all  I  wish  to  know  ; 
Will  you  do  so  ? 
Pardon  my  rudeness, 
And  just  have  the  goodness 
(A  wager  to  decide)  to  tell  me  —  do  — 
Who  governs  in  this  house, —your  spouse  or 
you?" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  doubting  nod, 

"Your  question  's  very  odd  ; 
But  as  I  think  none  ought  to  be 
Ashamed  to  do  their  duty  (do  you  see  ?) 
On  that  account  I  scruple  not  to  say 
It  always  is  my  pleasure  to  obey. 
But  here  's  my  husband  (always  sad  without 

me)  ; 
Take  not   my  word,  but  ask  him,  if  you 
doubt  me." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  husband,  "  't  is  most  true  ; 

I  promise  you, 
A  more  obedient,  kind,  and  gentle  woman 
Does  not  exist. 

"  Give  us  your  fist," 
Said  John,  ' '  and,  as  the  ease  is  something  mora 
than  common, 
Allow  me  to  present  you  with  a  beast 
Worth  fifty  guineas  at  the  very  least. 


There  's  Smiler,  sir,  a  beauty,  you  must  own, 

There  's  Prince,  that  handsome  black, 
Ball  the  gray  mare,  and  Saladin  the  roan, 
Besides  old  Dunn  ; 
Come,  sir,  choose  one  ; 


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HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


761 


But  take  advice  from  me, 
Let  Prince  be  he  ; 
Why,  sir,  you'll  look  the  hero  onhis  back." 

"  I  '11  take  the  black,  and  thank  you  too." 
"Nay,  husband,  that  will  never  do  ; 
You  know,  you  've  often  heard  me  say 
How  much  I  long  to  have  a  gray  ; 
And  this  one  will  exactly  do  for  me." 
"No,  no,"  said  he, 
"  Friend,  take  the  four  others  back, 
And  only  leave  the  black." 
"Nay,  husband,  I  declare 
I  must  have  the  gray  mare." 
Adding  (with  yen  tie  fo.ce), 
"  The  gray  mare  is,  I  'm  sure,  the  better  horse." 

"  Well,  if  it  must  be  so,  —  good  sir, 

The  gray  mare  we  prefer  ; 
So  we  accept  your  gift."     John  made  a  feg  : 
"Allow  me  to  present  you  with  an  egg  ; 

'T  is  my  last  egg -remaining, 

The  cause  of  my  regaining, 
I  trust,  the  fond  affection  of  my  wife, 
Whom  I  will  love  the  better  all  my  life. 

Home  to  content  has  her  kind  father  brought  me  ; 
I  thank  him  for  the  lesson  he  has  taught  me." 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   INDIAN   CHIEFTAIN. 

'T  was  late  in  the  autumn  of  '53 

That,  making  some  l>usiness-like  excuse, 

I  left  New  York,  which  is  home  to  me, 
And  went  on  the  ca      to  Syracuse. 

Bora  and  cradled  in  Maiden  Lane, 
I  went  to  school  in  B    tery  Row, 
Till  when,  my  daily  bread  to  obtain, 

They  made  me  rink  to  Muggins  &  Co. 

Lut  I  belonged  to  a  genteel  set 

( if  clerks  with  souls  above  their  sphere, 

Who  in'ghl  after  eight  together  met 
To  feasl  on  intellectual  cheer. 

We  talked  of  Irving  and  Bryanl  and  Spratt, — 
Of  Willis,  and  how  much  they  pay  him  per 
page,— 
Of  Sontag  and  Julien  and  Art,  ami  all  that, — 


And  what  d'  ye  'all  it  .' 


the  Voice  of  the.  Age  ! 


We  w  rote  little  pieces  on  purling  brooks, 

And  meadow,  and  zephyr,  and  sea,  and  sky,  — 

Things  of  which  we  had   Been  g I  descriptions 

in  1 ',.  . 

And  the  last,  between  houses  .some  sixtj  fei  I 
high  ! 


Somehow  in  this  way  my  soul  got  fired  ; 

I  wanted  to  see  and  hear  and  know 
The  glorious  things  that  our  hearts  inspired,  — 

The  things  that  sparkled  in  poetry  so  ! 

And  I  had  heard  of  the  dark -browed  braves 

Of  the  famous  Onondaga  race, 
Who  once  paddled  the  birch  o'er  Mohawk's  waves, 

Or  swept  his  shores  in  war  and  the  chase. 

I  'd  see  that  warrior  stern  and  fleet ! 

Ay,  bowed    though   he    be  with  oppression's: 
abuse : 
I  'd  grasp  his  hand  !  —  so  in  Chambers  Street 

I  took  my  passage  for  Syracuse. 

Arrived  at  last,  I  gazed  upon 

The  smoke-dried  wigwam  of  the  tribe  : 

"  The  depot,  sir,"  suggested  one,  — 
I  smiled  to  scorn  the  idle  gibe. 

Then  to  the  baggage-man  I  cried, 

"0,  point  me  an  Indian  chieftain  out !" 

Rudely  he  grinned  as  he  replied, 
"  You'll  see  'em  loalin'  all  about  !  " 

Wounded  I  turn,  —  when  lo,  e'en  now 
Before  me  stands  the  sight  I  crave  ! 

I  know  him  by  his  swarthy  brow  ; 
It  is  an  Onondaga  brave  ! 

I  know  him  by  his  falcon  eye, 

His  raven  tress  and  mien  of  pride  ; 

Those  dingy  draperies,  as  they  fly, 
Tell  that  a  great  soul  throbs  inside  ! 

No  eagle-feathered  crown  he  wears, 

Capping  in  pride  his  kingly  brow  ; 
But  his  crownless  hat  in  grief  declares, 
"  I  am  an  unthroned  monarch  now  !  " 

"  0  noble  son  of  a  royal  line  !  " 

I  exclaim,  as  I  gaze  into  his  face, 
"How  shall  I  knit  my  soul  to  thine? 

How  right  the  wrongs  of  thine  injured  race  ? 

"  What  shall  I  do  for  thee,  glorious  one  ? 

To  soothe  thy  sorrows  my  soul  aspires. 
Speak  !  and  say  how  the  Saxon's  son 

May  atone  forthe  wrongs  of  his  ruthless  sires  !" 

Be  speaks,  he  speaks  ! — that  noble  chief  ! 

From  his  marble  lips  deep  accents  come  ; 
And  I  catch  the  sound  of  his  mighty  grief,  — 

"Pie'  gi'  me  tree  a  nt/or  git  some  rum  /" 

ANONYMOUS. 


ROPRECHT  THE   ROBBER. 

Roprecht  the  Robber  is  taken  at  last ; 
1  n  i  lologne  they  have  him  fast ; 
Trial  is  over,  and  sentence  past ; 


<& 


— -ff 


r& 


762 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


And  hopes  of  escape  were  vain,  lie  knew  ; 
For  the  gallows  now  must  have  its  due. 

But  buried  Ropreeht  must  not  be  ; 

He  is  to  be  left  on  the  triple  tree  ; 

That  they  who  pass  along  may  spy 

Where  the  famous  robber  is  hanging  on  high. 

It  will  be  a  comfortable  sight 
To  see  him  there  by  day  and  by  night ; 
For  Ropreeht  the  Robber  many  a  year- 
Had  kept  the  country  round  in  fear. 

In  his  suit  of  irons  he  was  hung  ; 

They  sprinkled  him  then,  and  their  psalm  they 

sung  ; 
And,  turning  away  when  this,  duty  was  paid, 
They  said,  —  "What  a  goodly  end  he  had  made ! " 

The  crowd  broke  up,  and  went  their  way  ; 
All  were  gone  by  the  close  of  day  ; 
And  Ropreeht  the  Robber  was  left  there, 
Hanging  alone  in  the  moonlight  air. 

The  stir  in  Cologne  is  greater  to-day 
Than  all  the  bustle  of  yesterday  ; 
Hundreds  and  thousands  went  out  to  see  ; 
The  irons  and  chains,  as  well  as  he, 
Were  gone,  but  the  rope  was  left  on  the  tree. 

A  wonderful  thing  !  for  every  one  said 
He  had  hung  till  he  was  dead,  dead,  dead  ; 
And  on  the  gallows  was  seen,  from  noon 
Till  ten  o'clock,  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Moreover,  the  hangman  was  ready  to  swear 
He  had  done  his  part  with  all  due  care  ; 
And  that  certainly  better  hanged  than  he 
Ko  one  ever  was,  or  ever  could  be. 

So  't  was  thought,  because  he  had  died  so  well, 
He  was  taken  away  by  miracle. 
But  would  he  again  alive  be  found  ? 
Or  had  he  been  laid  in  holy  ground  ? 

'T  was  a  whole  week's  wonder  in  tbnt  great  town, 
And  in  all  places,  up  the  river  and  down  ; 
But  a  greater  wonder  took  place  of  it  then, 
For  Ropreeht  was  found  on  the  gallows  again. 

With  that  the  whole  city  flocked  out  to  see  ; 

There  Ropreeht  was  on  the  triple  tree, 

Dead,  past  all  doubt,  as  dead  could  be  ; 

Bat  fresh  be  was,  as  if  spells  had  charmed  him, 

And  neither  wind  nor  weather  had  harmed  him. 

While  tli^  multitude  stood  in  a  muse, 

One  said,  "  i  'm  sine  In-  was  hanged  in  shoes." 

In  this  the  hangman  and  all  concurred  ; 

But  now,  behold,  he  Avas  booted  and  spurred  ! 


Plainly,  therefore,  it  was  to  be  seen, 

That  somewhere  on  horseback  he  had  been  ; 

And  at  this  the  people  marvelled  more 

Than  at  anything  which  had  happened  before. 

For  not  in  riding  trim  was  he 

When  he  disappeared  from  the  triple  tree  ; 

And  his  suit  of  irons  he  still  was  in, 

With  the  collar  that  clipped  him  under  the  chin. 

Ropreeht  the  Robber  had  long  been  their  curse, 
And  hanging  had  only  made  him  worse  ; 
For  bad  as  he  was  when  living,  they  said 
They  had  rather  meet  him  alive  than  dead. 

Pieter  Snoye  was  a  boor  of  good  renown, 
Whodweltabout  anhour  andahalf from  thetown; 
And  he,  while  the  people  were  all  in  debate, 
Went  quietly  in  at  the  city  gate. 

For  Father  Kijf  he  sought  about, 
His  Confessor,  till  he  found  him  out  ; 
But  the  Father  Confessor  wondered  to  see 
The  old  man,  and  what  his  errand  might  be. 

"  I  and  my  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon, 

Were  returning  home,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 

From  this  good  city  of  Cologne, 

On  the  night  of  the  execution  day  ; 

And  hard  by  the  gibbet  was  our  way. 

"  About  midnight  it  was  we  were  passing  by, 
My  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  I, 
When  we  heard  a  moaning  as  we  came  near, 
Which  made  us  quake,  at  first,  for  fear. 

"  But  the  moaning  was  presently  heard  again, 
And  we  knew  it  was  nothing  ghostly  then  ; 
'  Lord  help  us,  father  ! '  Piet  Pieterszoon  said, 
'  Ropreeht,  for  certain,  is  not  dead.' 

' '  So  under  the  gallows  our  cart  we  drive, 
And,  sure  enough,  the  man  was  alive. 
Because  of  the  irons  that  he  was  in, 
He  was  hanging,  not  by  the  neck,  but  the  chin. 

' '  The  reason  why  things  had  got  thus  wrong 
Was  that  the  rope  had  been  left  too  long  ; 
The  hangman's  fault,  —  a  clumsy  rogue, 
He  is  not  fit  to  hang  a  dog. 

"My  son,  Piet  Pieterszoon,  and  I, 
We  took  him  down,  seeing  none  was  nigh  ; 
And  we  took  off  his  suit  of  irons  with  care, 
When  we  got  him  home,  and  we  hid  him  there. 

"  Well,  Father,  we  kept  him  at  bed  and  board 
Till  his  neck  was  cured  and  his  strength  restored, 
And  we  should  have  sent  him  off  this  day 
With  something  to  help  him  on  his  way  ; 


t&~ 


-ff 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


763 


ft 


"  But  this  wicked  Roprecht,  what  did  he, 
Though  lie  had  been  saved  thus  mercifully  ? 
Hanging  had  done  him  so  little  good, 
That  he  took  to  his  old  ways  as  soon  as  he  could. 

"  Last  night,  when  we  were  all  asleep, 
Out  of  his  bed  did  this  gallows-bird  creep  ; 
Piet  Pieterszoon's  boots  and  spurs  he  put  on, 
And  stole  my  best  horse,  and  away  he  was  gone. 

"  Now  Alit,  my  wife,  did  not  sleep  so  hard 
But  she  heard  the  horse's  feet  in  the  yard  ; 
And  when  she  jogged  me,  and  bade  me  wake, 
My  mind  misgave  me  as  soon  as  she  spake. 

"To  the  window  my  good  woman  went, 
And  watched  which  way  his  course  he  bent  ; 
And  in  such  time  as  a  pipe  can  be  lit, 
Our  horses  were  ready  with  bridle  and  bit. 

"Away,  as  fast  as  we  could  hie, 
"We  went,  Piet  Pieterszoon  and  I  ; 

And  still  on  the  plain  we  had  him  in  sight  ; 
The  moon  did  not  shine  for  nothing  that  night. 

"  Knowing  the  ground  and  riding  fast, 

We  came  up  with  him  at  last  ; 

And  —  would  you  believe  it  ?  —  Father  Kijf, 

The  ungrateful  wretch  would  have  taken  my  life, 

If  he  had  not  missed  his  stroke  with  a  knife. 

"  When  we  had  got  him  on  the  ground, 
We  fastened  his  hands,  and  his  legs  we  bound  ; 
And  across  the  horse  we  laid  him  then, 
And  brought  him  back  to  the  house  again. 

" '  We  have  robbed  the  gallows,  and  that  was  ill 

done,'  , 

Said  I  to  Pieterszoon,  my  son, 
'And  restitution  we  must  make 
To  that  same  gallows,  for  justice'  sake.' 

"In  his  suit  of  irons  the  rogue  we  arniyed, 
Ami  once  again  in  the  cart  he  was  laid  ; 
Ni_  lit  not  yet  so  far  was  spent 
But  there  was  time  enough  for  our  intent ; 
And  back  tn  the  triple  tree  we  went. 

"  His  own  rope  was  ready  there, 
To  measure  the  length  we  took  good  care  ; 
And  the  job  which  the  bungling  hangman  begun, 
This  time,  I  think,  was  properly  done, 
Byrne  and  Piet  Pieterszoon,  my  son." 

RODERT  SOUTHEY. 


SNEEZING. 

What  a  moment,  what  a  doubt ! 
All  my  nose  is  inside  out, — 
All  my  thrilling,  tickling  caustic, 
Pyramid  rhinocerostic, 


Wants  to  sneeze  and  cannot  do  it  ! 
How  it  yearns  me,  thrills  me,  stings  me, 
How7  with  rapturous  torment  fills  me  ! 

Now  says,  "Sneeze,  you  fool,  —  get  through  it." 
Shee  —  shee  —  oh  !  't  is  most  del-ishi  — 
Ishi  —  ishi  —  most  del-ishi ! 
( Hang  it,  I  shall  sneeze  till  spring  !) 
Snulf  is  a  delicious  thing. 

ANONYMOUS. 


CARMEN. 

Cano  carmen  sixpence,  a  corbis  plena  rye, 
Multas  aves  atras  percoctas  in  a  pie  ; 
Ubi  pie  apertus  turn  canit  avium  grex  ; 
Nonne  suavis  cibus  hoc  locari  ante  rex  ? 
Fuisset  rex  in  parlor,  multo  de  nummo  tumens  ; 
Regina  in  culina,  bread  and  mel  consumens  ; 
Ancilla  was  in  horto,  dependens  out  her  clothes, 
Quurn  venit  parva  comix  demorsaest  her  nose." 

Mater  anser's  melodies. 


NOCTURNAL  SKETCH. 

Even  is  come  ;  and  from  the  dark  Park,  bark, 
The  signal  of  the  setting  sun  —  one  gun  ! 
And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime  time 
To  go  and  see  the  Drury-Lane  Dane  slain,  — 
Or  hear  Othello's  jealous  doubt  spoilt  out,  — 
Or  Macbeth  raving  at  that  shade-made  blade, 
Denying  to  his  frantic  clutch  much  touch  ;  — 
Or  else  to  see  Ducrow  with  wide  stride  ride 
Four  horses  as  no  other  man  can  span  ; 
Or  in  the  small  Olympic  Pitt  sit  split 
Laughing  at  Liston,  while  you  quiz  his  phiz. 

Anon  Night  comes,  and  with  her  wings  brings 

things 
Such  as,  with  his  poetic  tongue,  Young  sung  ; 
The  gas  up-blazes  with  its  bright  white  light, 
And  paralytic  watchmen  prowl,  howl,  growl, 
About  the  streets  and  take  up  Tall-Mall  Sal, 
Who,  hasting  to  her  nightly  jobs,  robs  fobs. 

Now  thieves  to  enter  for  your  cash,  smash,  crash, 
Past  drowsy  Charley,  in  a  deep  sleep,  creep, 
But,  frightened  by  Policeman  B.  8,  Bee, 
And  while  they 're  going,  whisper  low,  "No  go  !" 

Now  puss,  while  folks  are  in  their  beds,  treadsleads, 
And  sleepers  waking,  grumble, — "Drat  that  eat  I " 

Wlin  in  the  gutter  caterwauls,  squalls,  mauls, 
Some  feline  foe,  and  screams  in  shrill  ill-will. 


Now  Pulls  of  P.ashan,  of  a  prize  size,  rise 

In  childish  dreams,  and  with  a  roar  gore  poor 


<&-- 


~W 


a- 


"ci-t 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


■a 


Georgy,  or  Charley,  or  Billy,  willy-nilly  ;  — 
But  Nursemaid  in  anightmarerest,  chest-pressed, 
Drearneth  of  one  of  her  old  flames,  James  Games, 
And  that  she  hears  —  what  faith  is  man's  —  Ann's 

banns 
And  his,  from  Reverend  Mr.  Rice,  twice,  thrice  ; 
White  ribbons  flourish,  and  a  stout  shout  out, 
That  upward  goes,  shows  Rose  knows  those  beaux' 

WOeS    '  THOMAS  HOOD. 


SORROWS   OF  WEETHER. 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Chai-lotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter  ; 

Would  you  know  how  lirst  he  met  her  ? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 

Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


TOO   FULL   OF   BEER. 

A   SONG   OF    THE   ENGLISH    WORKING   CLASSES. 

Ai>,  —  "Poor  Mary  A.v.ve." 

For  Reform  we  feels  too  lazy  ; 

Too  full  o'  beer. 
Much  malt  liquor  makes  us  hazy, 

Too  full  o'  beer. 
We  don't  want  no  alteration 
Of  the  present  Legislation  ; 
'T  won't  affect  our  sittiwation, 

Too  full  o'  beer. 

We  've  the  means  to  bile  our  kettles, 

Too  full  o'  beer. 
Not  bad  off  for  drink  and  wittles, 

Too  full  o'  beer. 
When  we  've  got  no  work  nor  wages 
Politics  our  minds  engages, 
Till  such  time  we  never  rages, 

Too  full  o'  beer. 


Will  this  here  Reform,  we  axes, 

Too  full  o'  beer, 
Clear  us  quite  of  rates  and  taxes, 

Too  full  o'  beer  ? 
Income-Tax  the  middlin'  classes 
Loads  unequal, —  patient  asses  !  — 
But  it  don't  oppress  the  masses, 

Too  full  o'  beer. 

We  be  willin'  to  be  quiet, 

Too  full  o'  beer. 
Not  a  bit  inclined  to  riot, 

Too  full  o'  beer. 
From  the  ale  that 's  sound  and  nappy, 
Him  as  wants  a  change  is  sappy  ; 
Wot 's  the  odds  so  long 's  you  're  happy, 

Too  full  o'  beer  ? 

PUNCH. 


DOW'S   FLAT. 
1856. 
Dow's  Flat.     That 's  its  name. 


And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?    The  same  ? 
Well,  I  thought  it  was  true, 
For  thar  is  n't  a  man  on  the  river  as  can't  spot  the 
place  at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow,  — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass  ; 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass,  — 
Jest  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye 
down  here  in  the  grass. 

You  see  this  yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck  ; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 
Why,  ef  he'd   a'   straddled  thet  fence-rail   the 
derned  thing  'ed  get  up  and  buck. 

He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  could  n't  pay  rates  ; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  he  tunnelled  with  Bates  ; 
And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem  his  wife 
and  five  kids  from  the  States. 

It  was  rough,  —  mighty  rough  ; 

But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 
For  a  house,  on  the  sly  ; 
And  the  old  woman,  —  well,  she  did  washing, 


and  took  on  when  no  one  was  nigh. 


& 


~ff 


a 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


'65 


ft 


But  this  yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green  ; 
And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  hut  nary 
a  drop  to  be  seen. 

Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  hoys  would  n't  stay  ; 
And  the  chills  got  about, 
And  his  wife  fell  away  ; 
But   Dow,  in  his  well,  kept   a   peggin'  in   his 
usual  ridikilous  way. 

One  day,  —  it  was  June,  — 

And  a  year  ago,  jest,  — 
This  Dow  kem  at  noon 
To  his  work  like  the  rest, 
With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a 
derringer  hid  in  his  breast. 

He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell 

Jest  to  listen  and  think  : 
For  the  sun  in  his  eyes,  (jest  like  this,  sir !)  you 
see,  kinder  made  the  cuss  blink. 

His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay  : 
Not  much  for  a  man  to  be  leavin',  but  his  all,  — 
as  I  've  heer'd  the  folks  say. 

And  —  that 's  a  peart  boss 

Thet  you  've  got  —  ain't  it  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh  ?  Oh  !— Well  then,  Dow  — 
Let's  see, — well,  that  forty-foot  grave  wasn't 
his,  sir,  that  day,  anyhow. 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 
Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 
For  you  see  the  dern  cuss  had  struck  —  "Wa- 
ter?" —  beg  your  parding,  young  man, 
there  you  lied  ! 

It  was  gold,  —  in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike  : 
And  I  reckon  five  oughts 

Wa  i  the  worth  of  that  strike  ; 
And   that   houBe  with  the  coopilow's  his'n, — 
which  the  Bame  is  n't  had  for  a  Pike. 

Thet  \s  why  it 's  Dow's  Flat  ; 

And  the  thin-  of  it  is 
That  lie  kinder  got  that 


Through  sheer  contrairiness  : 
For  't  was  water  the  derned  cuss  was  seekin',  and 
his  luck  made  him  certain  to  miss. 

Thet 's  so.     Thar 's  your  way 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree  ; 

But  —  a  —  look  h'yur,  say, 

Won't  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 

No  ?     Well,  then  the  next  time  you  're  passin'  ; 

and  ask  after  Dow,  —  and  thet 's  me. 
Francis  Bret  Harte. 


CHIQUITA. 

Beautiful  !  Sir,  you  may  say  so.  Thar  is  n't 
her  match  in  the  county,  — 

Is  thar,  old  gal  ?  Chiquita,  my  darling,  my 
beauty  ! 

Feel  of  that  neck,  sir,  — thar's  velvet  !  Whoa  ! 
Steady  —  ah,  will  you  ?  you  vixen  ! 

Whoa  !  I  say.  Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gen- 
tleman look  at  her  paces. 

Morgan  !  —  She  ain't  nothin'  else,  and  I  've  got 

the  papers  to  prove  it. 
Sired  by   Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred 

dollars  won't  buy  her. 
Briggs  of  Tuolumne  owned  her.     Did  you  know 

Briggs  of  Tuolumne  ?  — 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his 

brains  down  in  'Frisco  ? 

Hed  n't  no  savey,  —  hed  Briggs.     Thar,  Jack  ! 

that  '11  do,  —  quit  that  foolin'  ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do  when  she  's  got  her 

work  cut  out  before  her. 
Hosses  is  hosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,   too, 

jockeys  is  jockeys ; 
And  't  ain't  every  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what 

a  boss  has  got  in  him. 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got 

Flanigan's  leaders  ? 
Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough 

ford  in  low  water  ! 
Well,    it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the 

Jedge,  and  his  nevey, 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  1  he  night,  in  the  rain,  and 

the  water  all  round  us  ; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Rattlesnake 

Creek  just  a  bilin', 
Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge 

on  the  river. 
I  had  the  gray,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and 

his  nevey,  Chiquita  ; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from 

the  top  of  the  canon. 


fe~ 


W 


a- 


766 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford, 

and  Chiquita 
Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and  afore  I  could 

yell  to  her  rider, 
Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the 

Jedge  and  me  standing, 
And  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss-flesh  afloat, 

and  a  driftin'  to  thunder  ! 

"Would  ye  b'lieve  it,  that  night,  thathoss,  —  that 

ar'  filly,  —  Chiquita, — 
Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there  all 

quiet  and  dripping  ! 
Clean  as  a  heaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of 

harness, 
Just  as  she  swam  the  Fork,  —  that  hoss,  that  ar' 

filly,  Chiquita. 

That 's  what  I  call  a  hoss  !  and — what  did  you 

say  ?  —  0,  the  nevey  ? 
Drownded,  I  reckon,  — leastways,  he  never  kem 

back  to  deny  it. 
Ye  see  the  denied  fool  hadno  seat,  — ye  could  n't 

have  made  him  a  rider  ; 

And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses 

—  well,  hosses  is  hosses  ! 

Francis  Bret  Harte. 


LITTLE  BILLEE. 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City 
"Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea, 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

There  was  gorging  Jack,  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee  ; 

Now  when  they  'd  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 
They  'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"  I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"  We  've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"  With  one  another  we  should  n't  agree  ! 

There  's  little  Bill,  he  's  young  and  tender, 
We  're  old  and  tough,  so  let 's  eat  he." 

"0  Billy  !  we  're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 

When  Bill  received  this  information, 
He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

"  First  let  me  say  my  catechism 
Which  my  poor  mother  taught  to  me." 


"Makehaste!  makehaste!"  saysguzzlingJimmy, 
AVhile  Jack  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top-gallant  mast, 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  !  ended  knee, 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  Twelfth  Commandment 
When  up  he  jumps  —  "  There 's  land  1  see  !  " 

"Jerusalem  and  Madagascar 

And  North  and  South  Amerikee, 
There  's  the  British  Hag  a  riding  at  anchor, 

With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  C.  B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's, 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee, 
But  as  for  little  Bill  he  made  him 

The  Captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


SEBASTOPOL    TAKEN  — IN    AND    DONE 
FOR. 

A  ir,  —  "  bow,  wow,  wow." 

I  sing  about  a  subject  now,  of  which  each  paper 

has  its  full,  — 
The  glorious  deed  so  lately  done,  —  the  taking  of 

Sebastopol ; 
That  is,  —  they  would  have  taken   it,  as  such 

was  their  intention,  yet 
They  have  n't,  so  this  latest  joke  I  hope  you  will 

not  mention  yet. 

Bosh,  bosh,  bosh  ! 
All  the  wires  are  telegraphing  bosh,  bosh,  bosh. 

With  fifty  thousand  men,  and  more,  and  cannon 

primed  and  loaded,  sirs, 
They  smashed  and  crashed  each  standing  stone, 

and  all  the  Russians  goaded,  sirs  ; 
That  is,  —  they  would  have  done  that  same,  and 

left  them  not  a  jot  at  all, 
But  it  happened  neither  guns  nor  men  were  ever 

near  the  spot  at  all. 

Bosh,  bosh,  bosh. 

They  slew  full  twenty  thousand  foes,  and  took 

as  many  living,  sirs, 
And  seized  on  everything  they  saw,  not  waiting 

for  the  giving,  sirs  ; 
That  is,  —  all  this  they  would  have  done,  your 

growlers  I  will  bet  'em, 
But  a  trifling  thing  prevented  it,  —  the  Russians 

would  n't  let  'em. 

Bosh,  bosh,  bosh. 

They  took  at  least  five  hundred  sail,  and  steam- 
ers nine-and-sixty,  too, 

Blew  up  and  sunk  and  fired  the  rest ;  most  prop- 
erly they  "  fixed  it,"  too  ; 


fe~ 


-ff 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


767 


■ft 


That  is,  —  they  would  have  shaved  the  coast  as 

clean  as  any  barber,  sir, 
But  it  so  happened  that  the  fleet  lay  snugly  in 

the  harbor,  sir. 

Bosh,  bosh,  bosh. 

Prince  Menschikoff  one  Jack  Tar  took,  all  singly, 
with  no  aid  alive, 

Requesting  which  he  'd  rather  be,  stuck,  stran- 
gled, drowned,  or  flayed  alive  ; 

That  is,  —  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  the  Prince 
would  have  been  taken, 

But  he  's  no  rasher  than  he  should  be,  —  so  he 
saved  his  bacon. 

Bosh,  bosh,  bosh. 

Lord  Raglan  slew,  with  his  own  hand,  of  Rus- 
sians full  a  hundred,  sirs  ; 

St.    Arnaud   kept   the  game   alive,  and  eighty 
wesands  sundered,  sirs ; 

That  is,  —  they  would  have  killed  them  all,  and 
left  each  corse  behind  'em, 

But  as  they  were  not   there  to  kill,  in   course 
they  could  n't  find  'em. 

Bosh,  bosh,  bosh. 

At  night,  according  to  the  Times,  that  surest  of 
all  staters, 

The  Allies  supped  within  the  walls,  on  tripe  and 
baked  potatoes  ; 

That  is,  —  they  would  have  had  that  fare,  and, 
doubtless,  keenly  relished  it, 

But  they  had  junk  outside  the  walls  and  noth- 
ing else  embellished  it  ! 

Bosh,  bosh,  bosh. 

Now  when  the  next  news  come  to  hand,  we  hope 

it  will  be  true,  sirs, 
Assuring  us  of  something  done,  and  not  a  public 

"do,"  sirs; 
And  if  there  is,   why  then  we'll  shout,    "Well 

dune,  my  lads  !  "  that 's  poz,  sirs, 
And  if  there  isn't,  why  then  things  ar'n't  as 

they  used  to  was,  sirs. 

Bosh,  bosh,  bosh. 

London  Diogenes. 


THE  INEBRIATE. 

PARODY. 

Not  n  sous  had  he  got,  — not  a  guinea  or  note, 
And  he  Looked  confoundedly  flurried, 

As  he  bolted  away  without  paying  Ids  shot, 
And  the  Landlady  after  him  hurried. 

We  saw  him  again  at  dead  of  night, 
When  home  from  the  Club  returning; 

We  twigged  the  Doctor  beneath  the  light 
Of  the  gas-lamp  brilliantly  burning. 


All  bare,  and  exposed  to  the  midnight  dews, 
Reclined  in  the  gutter  we  found  him  ; 

And  he  looked  like  a  gentleman  taking  a  snooze, 
"With  his  Marslmll  cloak  around  him. 


"  The  Doctor 's  as  drunk  as  the  d- 


,"  we  said, 
And  we  managed  a  shutter  to  borrow  ; 
We  raised  him,  and  sighed  at  the  thought  that 
his  head 
Would  "  con  sumedly  ache  "  on  the  morrow. 

We  bore  him  home,  and  we  put  him  to  bed, 
And  we  told  his  wife  and  his  daughter 

To  give  him,  next  morning,  a  couple  of  red 
Herrings,  with  soda-water. 

Loudly  they  talked  of  his  money  that  's  gone, 
And  his  Lady  began  to  upbraid  him  ; 

But  little  he  recked,  so  they  let  him  snore  on 
'Neath  the  counterpane  just  as  we  laid  him. 

We  tucked  him  in,  and  had  hardly  done 
When,  beneath  the  window  calling, 

We  heard  the  rough  voice  of  a  son  of  a  gun 
Of  a  watchman  "  One  o'clock  !  "  bawling. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  all  walked  down 

From  his  room  in  the  uppermost  story  ; 

A  rushlight  we  placed  on  the  cold  hearthstone, 

And  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory  ! 

Richard   Harris   Barham. 

(Thomas  Ingoldsby.) 


PERILS   OF   THE   PAVE. 

Jumping  over  gutters, 

Wading  through  the  flood, 
Ploughing  through  the  slush, 

Tumbling  in  the  mud, 
Squatting  in  the  puddles,  — 

Bless  me  !  this  is  nice, 
Slopping  through  the  water, 

Slipping  on  the  ice. 

Men  of  every  class, 

In  such  falling  weather, 
Find  it  very  easy, 

Tumbling  down  together. 
Pillars  of  th>'  church, 

Servants  of  the  devil, 
Here  they  very  quickly 

Find  a  common  level. 

Very  sharp  young  fellow 
Makes  a  perfect  flat, 

Rusty,  fusty  bachelor 
Tumbles  on  his  hat. 


[S- 


w 


c& 


768 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


~& 


Strictly  temperate  man, 

Who  has  ne'er  been  fuddled, 

Staggers  here  and  falls, 
Dreadfully  be-muddled. 

Corpulent  old  lady, 

Radiant  with  blushes, 
Ere  she  can  cry  "Ned," 

To  the  pavement  rushes. 
Affluent  old  butcher, 

With  a  solemn  frown, 
Says  "  he 's  very  sorry 

Beef  is  going  down." 

Antiquated  maiden, 

Easy  to  disturb, 
Violently  seats  her 

On  the  filthy  curb. 
Witty  man  assisting, 

Says,  "  Trust  you  have  n't  hurt  you  ; 
Judging  from  position, 

You  must  be  gutta-percha." 

Policeman  on  corner, 

Holding  up  the  wall, 
Suddenly,  in  slipping, 

Can't  arrest  his  fall. 
Curious  little  boy, 

Walking  with  his  par, 
Anxiously  inquires 

"  If  that 's  a  falling  star.  " 

Yellow-kidded  dandy, 

Dressed  in  height  of  fashion, 
Falls  into  a  puddle, 

And  then  into  a  passion  ; 
Finding  that  he  's  going, 

In  his  wild  alarm 
Tries  to  break  his  tumble,  -*" 

Only  breaks  his  arm. 

Here  a  robust,  sober, 

Hearty-looking  Quaker 
Lays  himself  out  flat 

Sans  an  undertaker. 
Then  a  jolly  soul, 

Full  of  gin  and  porter, 
Quickly  drops  his  rum 

And  takes  to  dirty  water. 

Smiling  little  girls, 

Charming  little  trippers, 
Slip  along  the  pave 

As  if  they  had  on  slippers  ; 
Skipping  over  streams 

No  wider  than  their  thumbs, 
Show  their  pretty  teeth 

And  horrid  ugly  gums. 


Broken-winded  horses, 

Pulling  all  they  're  able, 
Frequently  get  stalled, 

But  seldom  in  the  stable. 
Passengei'S  in  'busses, 

Dreadfully  aggravated, 
From  their  fellow-creatures 

Are  wholly  isolated. 

Jumping  over  gutters, 

Wading  through  the  flood, 
Ploughing  through  the  slush, 

Tumbling  in  the  mud, 
Squatting  in  the  puddles,  — 

Bless  me  !  this  is  nice, 
Slopping  through  the  water, 

Slipping  on  the  ice. 


ANONYMOUS. 


WIDOW  BEDOTT  TO   ELDER  SNIFFLES. 

FROM    "THE   WIDOW   BEDOTT    PAPERS." 

0  reverend  sir,  I  do  declare 
It  drives  me  most  to  frenzy, 

To  think  of  you  a  lying  there 
Down  sick  with  influenzy. 

A  body  'd  thought  it  was  enough 
To  mourn  your  wive's  departer, 

Without  sich  trouble  as  this  ere 
To  come  a  follerin'  arter. 

But  sickness  and  affliction 

Are  sent  by  a  wise  creation, 
And  always  ought  to  be  underwent 

By  patience  and  resignation. 

0,  I  could  to  your  bedside  fly, 
And  wipe  your  weeping  eyes, 

And  do  my  best  to  cure  you  up, 
If  't  would  n't  create  surprise. 

It  's  a  world  of  trouble  we  tarry  in, 

But,  Elder,  don't  despair  ; 
That  you  may  soon  be  movin'  again 

Is  constantly  my  prayer. 

Both  sick  and  well,  3rou  may  depend 

You  '11  never  be  forgot 
By  your  faithful  and  affectionate  friend, 
Priscilla  Pool  Bedott. 

Frances  Miriam  Whitcher. 


DEBORAH   LEE. 

PARODY. 


'T  rs  a  dozen  or  so  of  years  ago, 
Somewhere  in  the  West  countree, 

That  a  nice  girl  lived,  as  ye  Hoosier6  know 
By  the  name  of  Deborah  Lee  ; 


c&~ 


-ff 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


a 


709 


Her  sister  was  loved  by  Edgar  Poe, 
But  Deborah  by  me. 

Now  I  was  green,  and  she  was  green, 

As  a  summer's  squash  might  be  ; 
And  we  loved  as  warmly  as  other  folks,  — 

I  and  my  Deborah  Lee,  — 
With  a  love  that  the  lasses  of  Hoosierdom 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

But  somehow  it  happened  a  long  time  ago, 

In  the  aguish  West  eountree, 
That  a  chill  March  morning  gave  the  shakes 

To  my  beautiful  Deborah  Lee  ; 
And  the  grim  steam-doctor  (drat  him  !)  came, 

And  bore  her  away  from  me,  — 
The  doctor  and  death,  old  partners  they,  — 

In  the  aguish  eountree. 

The  angels  wanted  her  in  heaven 

(But  they  never  asked  for  me), 
And  that  is  the  reason,  I  rather  guess, 

In  the  aguish  West  eountree, 
That  the  cold  March  wind,  and  the  doctor,  and 
death, 

Took  off  my  Deborah  Lee  — 

My  beautiful  Deborah  Lee  — 
From  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  opening  flower, 

And  bore  her  away  from  me. 

Our  love  was  as  strong  as  a  six-horse  team, 

Or  the  love  of  folks  older  than  we, 

Or  possibly  wiser  than  we  ; 
But  death,  with  the  aid  of  doctor  and  steam, 

Was  rather  too  many  for  me  ; 
He  closed  the  peepers  and  silenced  the  breath 

Of  my  sweetheart  Deborah  Lee, 
And  her  form  lies  cold  in  the  prairie  mould, 

Silent  and  cold,  — ah  me  ! 

The  foot  of  the  hunter  shall  press  her  grave, 

And  the  prairie's  sweet  wild  flowers 
In  their  odorous  beauty  around  it  wave 

Through  all  the  sunny  hours, — 

The  still,  brighl  summer  hours  ; 
And  the  birds  shall  sing  in  the  tufted  grass, 

And  the  nectar-laden  1 , 

With  his  dreamy  hum,  on  his  gauze  wings  pass,  — 

She  wakes  no  more  to  me  ; 

Ah,  nevermore  to  me  I 
Though  the  wild  lards  sing  and  the  wild  flowers 
spring, 

She  wakes  no  more  to  me. 

Y el  oft  in  the  hush  of  the  dim,  still  night, 
A  vision  of  h-  .nit  j   1  Bee 

ling  oft  tomybedside, — a  phantom  of  light, 
Dear,  beautiful  1  >eborah  Lee,  — 
My  bride  that  was  to  be  ; 


And  I  wake  to  mourn  that  the  doctor,  and  death, 
And  the  cold  March  wind,  should  stop  the  breath 

Of  my  darling  Deborah  Lee,  — 

Adorable  Deborah  Lee,  — 
That  angels  should  want  her  up  in  heaven 

Before  they  wanted  me. 

ANONYMOUS. 


♦- 


WHAT  MR.   ROBINSON  THINKS. 

FROM    "THE    BICLOW    PAPERS." 

Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man  ; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his  folks ; 
He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
An'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes  ;  — 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My  !  aint  it  terrible  ?    Wut  shall  we  du? 

We  can't  never  choose  him  o'  course,  —  thet  's 
flat; 
Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round,  (don't  you  ?) 
An'  go  ill  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all  that  ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  C.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man  : 

He  's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places  or  pelf, 
But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his  plan,  — 
He's  ben  true  to  one  party,  — an'  thet  is  him- 
self ;  — 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war  ;* 

lie  don't  vally  principle  more 'n  an  old  cud  ; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer, 
But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an'  blood? 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  be  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin'  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  villape, 
Withgoodold  idees o'  wut 's  right  an'  wut  aint, 
We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an' 
pillage, 
An'  thet  eppyletts  worn't  the  best  mark  of  a 
saint  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  kind  o'  thing's  an  exploded  idee. 

*  Written  at  the  lime  of  the  Mexican  war,  whi  tronffly 

I    \<y  the    Anti-Slavery    party   as    being  unnecessary  and 
wrong. 


=&- 


~& 


a- 


770 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


■a 


The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be  took, 
Au'  Presidunt  Polk,  you  know,  lie  is  our  coun- 
try  ; 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a  book 
Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  us  the  per  con- 
tra ■ 
An'  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argimunts  lies  ; 
Sezthey  're  nothin'  on  airth  but  jest  fee,  f aw, 
fum  : 
Ami  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is  half  ov  it  ign'ance,  an'  t'other  half  rum  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  it  aint  no  sech  thing  ;  an',  of  course,  so 
must  we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  lie  never  heerd  in  his  life 
Thet  th'  Apostles  rigged  out  in  their  swaller- 
tail  coats, 
An'  marched  round  in  front  of  a  drum  an'  a  fife, 
To  git  some  on  'em  office,  an'  some  on  'em 
votes  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  they  did  n't  know  everythin'  down  in 
Judee. 

Wal,  -it 's  a  marcy  we  've  gut  folks  to  tell  us 
The  rights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  matters,  I 
vow,  — 
God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise  fel- 
lers, 
To  drive  the  world's  team  wen  it  gits  in  a 
slough  ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hollers  out 
Gee  ! 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


A  TALE  OF  DRURY  LANE. 

IMITATION   OF   SIR   WALTER    SCOTT. 

"  Thus  he  went  on,  stringing  one  extravagance  upon  another,  in 
the  style  his  hooks  of  chivalry  had  taught  hiin,  and  imitating-,  as 
near  as  he  could,  their  very  phrase."—  DON  QUIXOTE. 

To  be   spoken    by  Mr.   Kemble,  in  a  suit  of  the  Black 
1'rince's  armor,  borrowed  from  the  Tower. 

Rest  there  awhile,  my  bearded  lance, 
While  from  green  curtain  I  advance 
To  yon  foot-lights,  no  trivial  dance, 
And  tell  the  town  what  sad  mischance 
Did  Drury  Lane  befall. 


THE    NIGHT. 

On  fair  Augusta's  towers  and  trees 

Flitted  the  silent  midnight  breeze, 

Curling  the  foliage  as  it  past, 

Which  from  the  moon-tipped  plumage  cast 

A  spangled  light,  like  dancing  spray, 

Then  reassumed  its  still  array  ; 

When,  as  night's  lamp  unclouded  hung, 

And  down  its  full  effulgence  flung, 

It  shed  such  soft  and  balmy  power, 

That  cot  and  castle,  hall  and  bower, 

And  spire  and  dome,  and  turret  height, 

Appeared  to  slumbei  in  the  light. 

From  Henry's  Chapel,  Rufus'  Hall, 

To  Savoy,  Temple,  and  St.  Paul ; 

From  Knightsbridge,  Pancras,  Camden  Town, 

To  Redrifle,  Shadwell,  Horsleydown, 

No  voice  was  heard,  no  eye  unclosed, 

But  all  in  deepest  sleep  reposed. 

They  might  have  thought  who  gazed  around 

Amid  a  silence  so  profound 

It  made  the  senses  thrill, 
That 't  was  no  place  inhabited, 
But  some  vast  city  of  the  dead,  — 

All  was  so  hushed  and  still. 

THE    BTJRXING. 

As  Chaos,  which,  by  heavenly  doom, 
Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom, 
Started  with  terror  and  surprise 
When  light  first  flashed  upon  her  eyes,  — 
So  London's  sons  in  nightcap  woke, 

In  bedgown  woke  her  dames  ; 
For  shouts  were  heard  'mid  fire  and  smoke, 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke,  — 

"  The  playhouse  is  in  flames  !  " 
And,  lo  !  where  Catherine  Street  extends, 
A  fiery  tail  its  lustre  lends 

To  every  window-pane  ; 
Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 
And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort, 
And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport, 

A  bright  ensanguined  drain  ; 
Meux's  new  Brewhouse  shows  the  light, 
Rowland  Hill's  Chapel,  and  the  height 

Where  Patent  Shot  they  sell  ; 
The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 
Partakes  the  ray,  with  Surgeons'  Hall, 
The  Ticket-Porters'  House  of  Call, 
Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall, 
Wright's  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withaL 

And  Richardson's  Hotel. 
Nor  these  alone,  but  far  and  wide, 
Across  red  Thames's  gleaming  tide, 
To  distant  fields  the  blaze  was  borne, 
And  daisy  white  and  hoary  thorn 
In  borrowed  lustre  seemed  to  sham 
The  rose  or  red  sweet  Wil-li-am. 


& 


■-ff 


HUMOROUS   TOEMS. 


771 


■a 


To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 
Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury's  mound, 

As  from  a  lofty  altar  rise, 
It  seemed  that  nations  did  conspire 
To  oiler  to  the  god  of  lire 

Some  vast,  stupendous  sacrifice  ! 
The  summoned  firemen  woke  at  call, 
And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all  : 
Starting  from  short  and  broken  snooze, 
Each  sought  his  ponderous  hobnailed  shoes, 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied  ; 
Blush  breeches  next,  in  crimson  dyed, 

His  nether  bulk  embraced  ; 
Then  jacket  thick,  of  red  or  blue, 
Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 
The  engines  thundered  through  the  street, 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete, 
And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 

Along  the  ]  avement  paced. 
And  one,  the  leader  of  the  band, 
From  Charing  Cross  along  the  Strand, 
Like  stag  by  beagles  hunted  hard, 
Ban  till  he  stopped  at  Vin'gar  Yard. 
The  burning  badge  his  shoulder  bore, 
The  belt  and  oil-skin  hat  he  wore, 
The  cane  he  had,  his  men  to  bang, 
Showed  foreman  of  the  British  gang,  — 
His  name  was  Higginbottom.     Now 
'T  is  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  how 

The  others  came  in  view  : 
The  Hand-in-Hand  the  race  began, 
Then  tame  tin-  Phoenix  and  the  Sun, 
The  Exchange,  where  old  insurers  ran, 

The  Eagle,  where  tin-  new  ; 
With  these  came  Rumford,  Bumford,  Cole, 
Robins  from  Hockley  in  the  Hole, 
Lawson  and  Dawson,  cheek  by  jowl, 

•'rump  from  St.  Giles's  Pound  : 
WhitfoW  and  M  it  ford  joined  the  train, 
Huggins  and  Muggins  from  Chick  Lane, 
And  Clutterbuck,  who  got  a  sprain 

Before  the  plug  was  found. 
Flobson  and  .lob-on  did  not  sleep, 
But  all  !    no  trophy  could  they  reap, 

For  both  were  in  the  Donjon  Keep 
of  Bridewell's  gloomy  mound  ! 
E'en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed, 
For  sadder  scene  was  ne'er  disclosed  ; 
Without,   within,   in  hideous  show, 
Devouring  dames  resistless  glow, 
And  blazing  rafters  downward  go, 
And  never  halloo  "  Heads  below  !  " 

Nor  not  ice  give  at  all. 
The  firemen  terrified  are  slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrenl  How, 
For  fear  the  roof  should  fall. 


Back,  Robins,  back  !  Crump,  stand  aloof ! 
Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls  ! 
Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof, 
For,  lo  !  the  blading  rocking  roof 
Down,  down,  in  thunder  falls  ! 
An  awful  pause  succeeds  the  stroke, 
And  o'er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke, 
Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud, 
Concealed  them  from  the  astonished  crowd. 
At  length  the  mist  awhile  was  cleared, 
When,  lo  !  amid  the  wreck  upreared, 
Gradual  a  moving  head  appeared, 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
'T  was  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 
Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  woe, 
"  A  Muggins  !  to  the  rescue,  ho  !  " 

And  poured  the  hissing  tide  : 
Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain, 
And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain, 
For,  rallying  but  to  fall  again, 

He  tottered,  sunk,  and  died  1 

Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell, 
To  succor  one  they  loved  so  well  ? 
Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire 
(His  fireman's  soul  was  all  on  fire) 

His  brother  chief  to  save  ; 
But  ah  !  his  reckless  generous  ire 

Served  but  to  share  his  grave  ! 
'Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams, 
Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke, 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 
But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench, 
Destroying  sight,  o'erwhelmed  him  quite, 

He  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 

Still  o'er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved, 

His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved  : 

"Whitford  and  Mitford,  ply  your  pumps  ! 

Yon,  Clutterbuck,  come,  stir  your  stumps  ! 

Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps? 

A  fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps  !  — 

What  are  they  feared  on  ?  fools  !   'od  rot 'em  !" 

Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom. 

Horace  smi  i  h.    From  the 

Rejected  Addresses. 


THE   THEATbi;. 

IMITATION     OF     CRABBE. 

Interior  of  a  Theatre  described.  —  Tit  gradually  fills.  —  The  Check- 
taker. —  Tit  full.  —  The  Orel  '.        •  - 
atory.       I                         and  repents.  —  I  t  a  Play-bill. 

—  Its  final  Settlement  on  the  Spikes.  —  The  C t 

—  and   why. —  Motley  Group  of  Play-goers.       H 

St.  Pancras.  —  Emanuel  Jennings  binds  his  Son  apj  irentice  —  not 
in  Li  i  why.       I  pisode  of  the  Hat. 

T  is  sweet  to  view,  from  half  pasl  live  to  six. 
Our  long  wax-candles,  with  short  cot  ion  wicks, 


W 


a 


772 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


-R- 


Touched  by  the  lamplighter's  Promethean  art, 
Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start ; 
To  see  red  Phoebus  through  the  gallery-pane 
Tinge  with  Ins  beam  the  beams  of  Drury  Lane  ; 
While  gradual  parties  till  our  -widened  pit, 
And  gape  and  gaze  and  wonder  ere  they  sit. 

At  first,  while  vacant  seats  give  choice  and  ease, 
Distant  or  near,  they  settle  where  they  please  ; 
But  when  the  multitude  contracts  the  span, 
And  seats  are  rare,  they  settle  where  they  can. 

Now  the  full  benches  to  late-comers  doom 
No  room  for  standing,  miscalled  standing  room. 

Hark  !  the  check-taker  moody  silence  breaks, 
And  bawling  "Pit  full !"  gives  the  check  he  takes; 
Yet  onward  still  the  gathering  numbers  cram, 
Contending  erowders  shout  the  frequent  damn, 
And  all  is  bustle,  squeeze,  row,  jabbering,  and  jam. 

See  to  their  desks  Apollo's  sons  repair,  — 
Swift  rides  the  rosin  o'er  the  horse's  hair  ! 
In  unison  their  various  tones  to  tune, 
Murmurs  the  hautboy,  growls  the  hoarse  bassoon; 
In  soft  vibration  sighs  the  whispering  lute, 
Tang  goes  the  harpsichord,  too-too  the  flute, 
Brays  the  loud  trumpet,  squeaks  the  fiddle  sharp, 
Winds  the  French  horn,  and  twangs  the  tingling 

harp  ; 
Till,  like  great  Jove,  the  leader,  figuring  in, 
Attunes  to  order  the  chaoti?  din. 
Now  all  seems  hushed,  —  but,  no,  one  fiddle  will 
Give,  half  ashamed,  a  tiny  flourish  still. 
Foiled  in  his  crash,  the  leader  of  the  clan 
Reproves  with  frowns  the  dilatory  man ; 
Then  on  his  candlestick  thrice  taps  his  bow, 
Nods  a  new  signal,  and  away  they  go. 

Perchance,  while  pit  and  gallery  cry ' '  Hats  off! " 
And  awed  Consumption  checks  his  chided  cough, 
Some  giggling  daughter  of  the  Queen  of  Love 
Drops,  reft  of  pin,  her  play-bill  from  above  : 
Like  Icarus,  while  laughing  galleries  clap, 
Soars,  ducks,  and  dives  in  air  the  printed  scrap  ; 
But,  wiser  far  than  he,  combustion  fears, 
And,  as  it  flies,  eludes  the  chandeliers  ; 
Till,  sinking  gradual,  with  repeated  twirl, 
It  settles,  curling,  on  a  fiddler's  curl  ; 
Who  from  his  powdered  pate  the  intruder  strikes, 
And,  from  mere  malice,  sticks  it  on  the  spikes. 

,  why  these  Babel  strains  from  Babel  tongues? 
Who  's  that  calls  "  Silence  !  "  with  such  leathern 

lungs  ? 
He  who,  in  quest  of  quiet,  "Silence  !"  hoots, 
Is  apt  to  make  the  hubbub  he  imputes. 


What  various  swainsour  motley  wallscontain! — 
Fashion  from  Moorfields,  honor  from  Chick  Lane; 


Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  resort, 
Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches  Court ; 
From  the  Haymarket  canting  rogues  in  grain, 
Gulls  from  the  Poultry,  sots  from  Water  Lane  ; 
The  lottery-cormorant,  the  auction-shark, 
The  full-price  master,  and  the  half-price  clerk  ; 
Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery  door, 
With  pence  twice  five,  —  they  want  but  twopence 

more  ; 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  twopence  spares, 
And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery  stairs. 

Critics  we  boast  who  ne'er  their  malice  balk, 
But  talk  their  minds,  —  we  wish  they  'd  mind 

their  talk  ; 
Big- worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live, — ■ 
Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  lie  they  give  ; 
Jews  from  St.  Mary  Axe,  for  jobs  so  wary, 
That  for  old  clothes  they  'd  even  axe  St.  Mary  ; 
And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pate, 
Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait ; 
Who  oft,  when  we  our  house  lock  up,  carouse 
With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a  lock-up  house. 

Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  Chance  can  joy  bestow, 
For  scowling  Fortune  seemed  to  threaten  woe. 

John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Esquire  ; 
But  when  John  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Blues, 
Emanuel  Jennings  polished  Stubbs's  shoes. 
Emanuel  Jennings  brought  his  youngest  boy 
Up  as  a  corn-cutter,  —  a  safe  employ  ; 
In  Holy-well  Street,  St.  Pancras,  he  was  bred 
(At  number  twenty-seven,  it  is  said), 
Facing  the  pump,  and  near  the  Granby's  Head  ; 
He  would  have  bound  him  to  some  shop  in  town, 
But  with  a  premium  he  could  not  come  down. 
Pat  was  the  urchin's  name,  —  a  red-haired  youth, 
Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle  grounds  than  truth. 

Silence,  ye  gods  !  to  keep  your  tongues  in  awe, 
The  Muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw. 

Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat, 
But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat : 
Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew, 
And  spurned  the  one  to  settle  in  the  two. 
How  shall  he  act  ?     Pay  at  the  gallery-door 
Two  shillings  for  what  cost,  when  new,  but  four  ? 
Or  till  half-price,  to  save  his  shilling,  wait, 
And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half  past  eight  ? 
Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief, 
John  Mullens  whispers,  "Take  my  handkerchief." 
"Thank  you,"  cries  Pat  ;  "but  one  won't  make 

a  line." 
"  Take  mine,"  cried  Wilson  ;  and  cried  Stokes, 
"  Take  mine." 


<&- 


-Fr- 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


■a 


773 


A  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties, 

Where  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies. 

Like  Iris'  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  clew, 

Starred,  striped,  andspotted,  yellow,red,  and  blue, 

Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 

George  Green  below,  with  palpitating  hand, 

Loops  the  last  kerchief  to  the  beaver's  band,  — 

Upsoars  the  prize  !  The  youth  with  joy  unfeigned 

Regained  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regained  ; 

While  to  the  ajiplauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 

Made  a  low  bow,  and  touched  the  ransomed  hat. 

James  Smith. 


THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE. 

DESCRIBED    IN   RHYMES    FOR    THE   NURSERY. 

"  How  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore  ? " 
My  little  boy  asked  me 
Thus,  once  on  a  time  ; 
And  moreover  he  tasked  me 
To  tell  him  in  rhyme. 
Anon  at  the  word, 
There  first  came  one  daughter, 
And  then  came  another, 
To  second  and  third 
The  request  of  their  brother, 
And  to  hear  how  the  water 
Comes  down  at  Lodore, 
With  its  rush  and  its  roar, 

As  many  a  time 
They  had  seen  it  before. 
So  I  told  them  in  rhyme, 
For  of  rhymes  1  had  store  ; 
And  't  was  in  my  vocation 
For  their  recreation 
That  so  1  should  sing  ; 
IJeeause  1  was  Laureate 
To  them  and  the  King. 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell  ; 
From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 
lis  rills  and  its  gills  ; 
Through  moss  and  through  brake, 
It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  a  while,  till  it  Bleeps 

In  its  own  little  lake. 
And  thence  at  departing, 
Awakening  and  starting, 
It  runs  through  the  reeds, 
And  away  it  proceeds, 
Through  meadoM  and  glade, 

In  sun  and  in  shade, 

And  through  the  wood-shelter, 

Among  crags  in  its  Hurry, 


Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry. 
Here  it  comes  sparkling, 
And  there  it  lies  darkling  ; 
Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in, 
Till  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent, 
It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  cataract  strong 

Then  plunges  along, 

Striking  and  raging 

As  if  a  war  waging 
Its  caverns  and  rocks  among  ; 

Rising  and  leaping, 

Sinking  and  creeping, 
Swelling  and  sweeping, 
Showering  and  springing, 

Flying  and  flinging, 
Writhing  and  ringing, 
Eddying  and  whisking, 
Spouting  and  frisking, 
Turning  and  twisting, 

Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound  : 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A  sight  to  delight  in  ; 
Confounding,  astounding, 
Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting, 
Receding  and  speeding, 
And  shocking  and  rocking, 
And  darting  and  parting, 
And  threading  and  spreading, 
And  whizzing  and  hissing, 
And  dripping  and  skipping, 
And  hitting  and  splitting, 
And  shining  and  twining, 
And  rattling  and  battling, 
And  shaking  and  quaking, 
And  pouring  and  roaring, 
And  waving  and  raving, 
And  tossing  and  crossing, 
And  flowing  and  going, 
And  running  and  stunning, 
And  foaming  and  roaming, 
And  dinning  and  spinning, 
And  dropping  and  hopping, 
And  working  and  jerking, 
And  guggling  and  struggling, 
And  heaving  and  cleaving, 
And  moaning  and  groaning  ; 

And  glittering  and  frittering, 

And  gathering  and  feathering, 


*Q- 


# 


a- 


774 


HUMOROUS   TOEMS. 


-a 


And  whitening  and  brightening, 
And  quivering  and  shivering, 
And  hurrying  and  skurrying, 
And  thundering  and  floundering  ; 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding, 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawling, 

And  driving  and  riving  and  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling, 

And  sounding  and  bounding  and  rounding, 

And  bubbling  and  troubling  and  doubling, 

And  grumbling  and  rumbling  and  tumbling, 

And  clattering  and  battering  and  shattering  ; 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting, 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying, 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dan- 

.  .Cil'g' 
Recoiling,  turmoiling  and  toiling  and  boiling, 

And  gleaming  and  streaming  and  steaming  and 
beaming, 

And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gush- 
ing, 

And  flapping  and  rapping  and  clapping  and  slap- 
ping. 

And   curling    and   whirling    and   purling   and 

twirling, 
And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and 

jumping, 
And   dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing   and 

clashing  ; 
And  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending, 
Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blending, 
All  at  once  and  all  o'er,  with  a  mighty  uproar, 

And  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 

Robert  Southey. 


POEMS 


EECEIVED     IN     RESPONSE     TO     AN     ADVERTISED 
CALL  FOR  A  NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

BY    H.    W.    L ,    OF  CAMBRIDGE. 

Back  in  the  years  when  Phlagstaff,  the  Dane, 
was  monarch 
Over  the  sea-ribbed   land   of  the  fleet-footed 
Norsemen, 
Once  there  went  forth  young  Ursa  to  gaze  at  the 
heavens,  — 
Ursa,  the  noblest  of  all  Vikings  and  horsemen. 

Musing  he  sat  in  his  stirrups  and  viewed  the 
horizon, 
Where  the  Aurora  lapt  stars  in  a  north-polar 
manner ; 


Wildly  he  started,  —  for  there  in  the  heavens  be- 
fore him 
Fluttered  and  flew  the  original  star-spangled 
banner. 

Two  objections  are  in  the  way  of  the  acceptance  of  this  anthem 
by  the  committee  :  in  the  first  place,  it  is  not  an  anthem  at  all ;  sec- 
ondly, it  is  a  gross  plagiarism  from  an  old  Sclavonic  war-song  of  the 
primeval  ages. 

Next  we  quote  from  a 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 


BY   THE    HON.    EDWARD   E- 


OF    BOSTON. 


Ponderous  projectiles,  hurled  by  heavy  hands, 

Fell  on  our  Liberty's  poor  infant  head, 
Ere  she  a  stadium  had  well  advanced 

On  the  great  path  that  to  her  greatness  led  ; 
Her  temple's  propylon  was  shatter-ed  ; 

Yet,  thanks  to  saving  Grace  and  Washington, 
Her  incubus  was  from  her  bosom  hurled  ; 

And,  rising  like  a  cloud-dispelling  sun, 
She  took  the  oil  with  which  her  hair  was  curled 
To  grease  the  "hub"  round  which  revolves  the 
world. 

This  fine  production  is  rather  heavy  for  an  "  anthem."  and  contains 
too  much  of  Boston  to  be  considered  strictly  national.  To  set  such 
an  "  anthem  "  to  music  would  require  a  Wagner  ;  and  even  were  it 
really  accommodated  to  a  tune,  it  could  only  be  whistled  by  the 
populace. 

We  now  come  to  a 

NATIONAL   ANTHEM. 

BY   JOHN    GREENLEAF   W . 

My  native  land,  thy  Puritanic  stock 
Still  finds  its  roots  firm  bound  in  Plymouth  Rock ; 
And  all  thy  sons  unite  in  one  grand  wish,  — 
To  keep  the  virtues  of  Preserv-ed  Fish. 

Preserv-ed  Fish,  the  Deacon  stern  and  true, 
Told  our  New  England  what  her  sons  should  do  ; 
And,  should  they  swerve  from  loyalty  and  right, 
Then  the  whole  land  were  lost  indeed  in  night. 

The  sectional  bias  of  this  "  anthem  "  renders  it  unsuitable  for  use 
in  that  small  margin  of  the  world  situated  outside  of  New  England. 
Hence  the  above  must  be  rejected. 

Here  we  have  a  very  curious 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

BY    DR.    OLIVER    WENDELL   H^— . 

A  diagnosis  of  our  history  proves 
Our  native  land  a  land  its  native  loves  ; 
Its  birth  a  deed  obstetric  without  peer, 
Its  growth  a  source  of  wonder  far  and  near. 

To  love  it  more,  behold  how  foreign  shores 
Sink  into  nothingness  beside  its  stores. 
Hyde  Park  at  best—  though  counted  ultra  grand — 
The  "  Boston  Common"  of  Victoria's  land  — 

The  committee  must  not  be  blamed  for  rejecting  the  above  after 
reading  thus  far,  for  such  an  "  anthem  "  could  only  be  sung  by  a 
college  of  surgeons  or  a  Beacon  Street  tea-party. 

Turn  we  now  to  a 


Ie~ 


ff 


a- 


HUMOROUS   POEMS. 


775 


a 


NATIONAL   ANTHEM. 

BY    RALPH   WALDO    E . 

Source  immaterial  of  material  naught, 

Focus  of  light  infinitesimal, 
Sum  of  all  things  by  sleepless  Nature  wrought, 

Of  which  abnormal  man  is  decimal. 

Refract,  in  prism  immortal,  from  thy  stars 
To  the  stars  blent  incipient  on  our  flag, 

To  beam  translucent,  neutrifying  death, 
And  raise  to  immortality  "the  rag." 

This  "  anthem "  was  greatly  praised  by  a  celebrated  German 
scholar,  but  the  committee  will  feel  obliged  to  reject  it  on  account 
of  its  too  childish  simplicity. 

Here  we  have  a 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

BY   WILLIAM    CULLEN    B . 

The  sun  sinks  softly  to  his  evening  post, 

The  sun  swells  grandly  to  his  morning  crown  ; 

Yet  not  a  star  our  flag  of  heaven  has  lost, 
And  not  a  sunset  stripe  with  him  goes  down. 

So  thrones  may  fall ;  and  from  the  dust  of  those 
New  thrones  may  rise,  to  totter  like  the  last ; 

But  still  our  country's  nobler  planet  glows, 
While  the  eternal  stars  of  Heaven  are  fast. 

Upon  finding  that  this  does  not  go  well  to  the  air  of  "  Yankee 
Doodle,"  the  committee  feel  justified  in  declining  it ;  being  further- 
more prejudiced  against  it  by  a  suspicion  that  the  poet  has  crowded 
an  advertisement  of  a  paper  which  he  edits  into  the  first  line. 

Next  we  quote  from  a 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

BY   GENERAL    GEORGE    P.    M . 

In  the  days  that  tried  our  fathers, 

Many  years  ago, 
Our  fair  land  achieved  her  freedom, 

Blood-bought,  you  know. 
Shall  we  not  defend  her  ever, 

As  we  'd  defend 
That  fair  maiden,  kind  and  tender, 

Calling  us  friend  < 

Yes  !     Let  all  the  echoes  answer, 

From  hill  and  vale  ; 
Yes  !     Let  other  nations  hearing, 

Joy  in  the  tale. 
Our  Columbia  is  a  lady, 

High-born  and  fair  ; 
We  have  sworn  allegiance  to  her, — 

Touch  her  who  dare. 

The  tone  of  this  "  anthem  "  nol  being  devotional  enough  to  suit 
mmittee,  it  should  be  printed  on  an  edition  of  linen-cambric 
handkerchiefs  for  ladies  especially. 
Observe  this 


NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

BY    N.    P.    W . 

One  hue  of  our  flag  is  taken 

From  the  cheeks  of  my  blushing  pet, 

And  its  stars  beat  time  and  sparkle 
Like  the  studs  on  her  chemisette. 

Its  blue  is  the  ocean  shadow 
That  hides  in  her  dreamy  eyes, 

And  it  concpiers  all  men,  like  her, 
And  still  for  a  Union  flies. 

Several  members  of  the  committee  find  that  this  "'  anthem  "  has 
too  much  of  the  Anacreon  spice  to  suit  them. 
We  next  peruse  a 

NATIONAL   ANTHEM. 

BY    THOMAS    BAILEY    A . 

The  little  brown  squirrel  hops  in  the  corn, 

The  cricket  quaintly  sings  ; 
The  emerald  pigeon  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  in  the  river  springs  ; 
The  dainty  sunflower  hangs  its  head 

On  the  shore  of  the  summer  sea  ; 
And  better  far  that  I  were  dead, 

If  Maud  did  not  love  me. 

I  love  the  squirrel  that  hops  in  the  corn, 

And  the  cricket  that  quaintly  sings  ; 
And  the  emerald  pigeon  that  nods  his  head, 

And  the  shad  that  gayly  springs. 
I  love  the  dainty  sunflower,  too, 

And  Maud  with  her  snowy  breast ; 
I  love  them  all ;  but  I  love  —  I  love  — 

I  love  my  country  best. 

This  is  certainly  very  beautiful,  and  sounds  somewhat  like  Ten- 
nyson. Though  it  may  be  rejected  by  the  committee,  it  can  never 
lose  its  value  as  a  piece  of  excellent  reading  for  children.  It  is 
calculated  to  fill  the  youthful  mind  with  patriotism  and  natural  his- 
tory, beside  touching  the  youthful  heart  with  an  emotion  palpitat- 
ing f->r  all. 

We  close  the  list  with  the  following  :  — 

NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

BY    R.    H.    STOD . 

Behold  the  flag  !     Is  it  not  a  flag  ? 

Deny  it,  man,  if  you  dare  ! 
And  midway  spread  'twixt  earth  and  sky 

It  hangs  like  a  written  prayer. 

Would  impious  hand  of  foe  disturb 

Its  memories'  holy  spell, 
And  bligb.1  it  with  a  dew  of  blood  ? 
Ha,  tr-r-aitor  !  ....   It  is  well. 

R.  H.  NEWE1  L, 

(Orpheus  C.  Kerr.} 


W 


-B 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 
A  baby  was  sleeping  .  .  .  Samuel  Lover  7 
A  barking  sound  the  sherherd  hears  Words-worth  211 
Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !) 

Leigh  Hunt  582 
A  brace  of  sinners  for  no  g  od  .  Peter  Pindar  739 
A  cloud  lay  cradled  n  ar  the  setting  sun  John  Wilson  593 
A  country  life  is  sweet  I  .  .  .  A  nonymous  420 
Adam  and  Eve  were,  at  the  world's  beginning 

G   Co/man 
A  dew-drop  came,  with  a  spark  of  flame  Anonymous 


728 
654 

774 
148 

I4S 


R.H.  Newell 
Byron 

T.  K.  Hervey 
W.  P.  Palmer  25 
Bums  143 

Thos.  Pr ingle  231 
Peter  Pindar  740 
Mr.  Maclellan  418 
Wordsworth  577 
Scott  9 1 

Eben.  Elliott  308 


A  diagnosis  of  our  history  proves 

Adieu,  adieu,  my  native  shore 

Adieu,  adieu  1  our  dream  of  love 

A  uisinct  school,  not  far  away 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  saver   . 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride 

A  fellow  in  a  market-town   . 

A  fiend  once  met  a  humble  man    Rev. 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 

A  footstep  struck  her  ear 

Again  the  violet  of  our  early  days 

A  generous  friendship  no  cold  medium  knows 

Pope's  Iliad  31 
A  girl,  who  has  so  many  wilful  ways  .  Miss  Mulock  46 
A  good  that  never  satisfies  the  mind  Drummond  253 
Ah,  Chloris,  could  I  now  but  sit .  .  Sir  C.  Sedley  42 
Ah  !  do  not  wanton  with  those  eyes  Ben  Jonson  57 
Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love  !         .         .    Dryden  s6 

Ah!  little  they  know  of  true  happiness  Mac-Carthy  425 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting  .  .  Mac-Carthy  305 
Ah,  my  sweet  sweeting  .  .  .  Anonymous  49 
Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil  !  Mac-Carthy       70 

Ah,  then  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded  davs  ! 

W.  A  llston  27 
A  hungry,  lean-faced  villain  ■  .  .  Shakespeare  561 
Ah  !  what  is  love  ?  It  is  a  pretty  thing  Robert  Greene  55 
Ah!   whence  yon  glare  .         .         .     She''ey  3S0 

Ali  !  who  but  oft  hath  marvelled  why  J.  G.  Saxe  67 
All,  yes,  —  the  fight  !     Well,  messmates,  well 

A  nonymous  4S7 
Airs,  that  wander  and  murmur  round  W.  C.  Bryant  84 
A  jolly  fat  friar  loved  liquor  good  store    Anonymous     733 


Alas  !  how  light  a  cause  may  move 

Alas,  that  moon  should  ever  beam 

Alasl  they  had  been  friends  in  youth 

Al.is  !  what  pity  't  is  that  regularity 

Alice  was  a  chieftain's  daughter  . 

A  little  in  the  doorway  sitting  . 

A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 

All  day  long  the  storm  nf  battle 

All  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan 

All  hail  I  thou  noble  land 

All  hail  to  the  ruins,  the  rocks,  and  the 


T.  Moore 

169 

T.  Hood 

670 

Coleridge 

35 

G.  Colman 

742 

Mac-Carthy 

■23 

T.  Burbidge 

11 

Milton 

235 

A  mm  vinous 

378 

Whittier 

4r'.S 

W.  A  llston 

444 

Montgomery 

47' 

F.J.  O'Brien  713 
A  nonymous  5 1 S 
Thackeray  45 

740 
284 

271 

671 

388 

16 

78 


Page 
All  in  our  marriage  garden       .        .        G.  Massey  16 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored  John  Gay  145 
"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say 

Mrs.  Howland  381 
All  that  is  like  a  dream  .  .  .  R.  Buc/ianan  247 
All  the  world  's  a  stage  .  .  .  Siiakespeare  615 
All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights     Coleridge  81 

Aloft  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag 
Along  the  frozen  lake  she  comes 
Although  I  enter  not 

A  man  in  many  a  country  town  we  know  G.  Colman 
Amazing,  beauteous  change  !  Doddridge 

A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God  (Translation  of  F.  H. 

Hedge)       ....         Martin  Luther 
A  milkmaid,  who  poised  a  full  pail  J.  Taylor 

A  moment,  then,  Lord  Marmion  stayed  Scott 
Among  the  beautiful  pictures  .         .         Alice  Carey 
Among  thy  fancies  tell  me  this     .         .    R.  Herrick 
A  monk,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were  o'er 

Jane  Taylor   673 
And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ?  W.  J.  Mickle  488 

And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home  D.  M.  Moir  191 
And  is  the  swallow  gone?  .  .  .  Wm.  Howitt  347 
And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?  .         .         Spenser  279 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow?  This  the  stream  Wordsworth  330 
And  let  this  feeble  body  fail  .  .  Ch  is.  Wesley  285 
And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  displayed 

Pope  561 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant  Tennyson  116 

And  there  two runnersdid  the  sign  abide  Wm.  Morris  83 
And  thou  hast  walked  about  .  .  Horace  Smith  542 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus?  .  .  Sir  T.  M'yatt  150 
An  exquisite  invention  this  .  .  .  Leigh  Hunt  t-j 
Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered  too  long  ! 

O.  W.  Holmes  373 
A  nightingale,  that  all  day  long   .         .    Cowper  671 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 

R.  W.  Emerson  319 
A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died .  Geo.  Crabbe  570 
Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome  Byron  533 

Art  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth  .  John  Wilson  590 
Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 

T.  Dckker       419 
As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 

C.  P.  Shanly    79 
As  by  the  shore,  at  break  of  day  T.  Moore         456 

A  simple  child Wordsworth      14 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day  .  .  .  .  R.  Barnfield  349 
A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers 

(  ■  I  .Norton  383 
As  once  a  Grecian  maiden  wove .        •    T.  Moore  (>7 

A  song  for  the  plant  of  my  own  native  West 

;/\  //'.  Fosdick  362 
A  song  to  the  oak,  the  brave  old  oak      H.  F.  Chorlcy  359 


— *# 


a- 


1 1' 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


As,  rising  on  its  purple  wing    .         .         Byron  171 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay  .  A.H.C/ough  143 
As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track    .         /'.  Moore  148 

A  stranger  came  one  night  to  Yussouf's  tent 

J.  R.  Lowell  581 
As  vonce  I  valked  by  a  dismal  swamp  //.  //.  Browuell  738 
A  swallow  in  the  spring  .  .  R.  S.  S.  Audros  346 
A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress  .  .  A'.  Herrick  593 
As  when,  on  Carmel's  sterile  steep  .  J.  H.  Bryant  450 
At  Amathus,  that  from  the  southern  side  /' ';//.  Morris  88 
At  Bannockburn  the  English  lay  .    Burns  440 

At  early  dawn  1  marked  them  in  the  sky  Montgomery  352 
A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we     Barry  Cornwall  354 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent  Halleck  450 

A  touch,  a  kiss  1  the  charm  was  snapt     Tennyson  116 

At  Paris  it  was,  at  the  opera  there  Bulwer-Lytton  170 
A  traveller  through  a  dusty  road  Chas.Mackay  592 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still 

Seattle  571 

At  Timon's  villa  let  us  pass  a  day  Pope  596 

Ave  Maria!  o'er  the  earth  and  sea  Byron  301 

A  violet  in  her  lovely  hair  .  .  Chas.  Swai?t  40 
A  voice  from  stately  Babylon  .  .  Anonymous  210 
Awake  !  —  the  starry  midnight  hour  Barry  Cornwall  68 
A  wanderer,  Wilson,  from  my  native  land  T.  Hood  719 

Away!  away!  through  the  sightless  air  G.  IV  Cutter  654 
A  weary  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro  .  .  C.  G-  Fenner  474 
A  well  there  is  in  the  West  country         Southey  132 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea  .  .  Cunningham  478 
A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea        .        Longfellow      297 

Ay,  but  I  know Shakespeare     160 

A  youth  named  Rhcecus  .         .         .         JR.  Lowell  642 

Baby  Bye T/ieo.   Villon        4 

Bachelor's  hall,  what  a  comical  place  it  is  !  Anon-  729 
Back  in  the  years  when  Phlagstafif,  the  Dane  Newell  774 
Backward,  turn  backward,  0  Time,  in  your  flight 

Florence  Percy  190 
Balow,  mv  b-ibe,  1y  stil  and  sleipe  !  Anonymous     173 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  .  .  R  Browning  203 
Beautiful  !  Sir,  you  may  say  so  .  F.  B.  Ilarle  765 
Beautiful,  sublime,  and  glorious.  .  B.Barton  47' 
Beautiful  was  the  night  .  .  .  Longfellow  5=0 
Because  I  breathe  not  love  toeverie  one  Sir  Ph.  Sidney  64 
Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee  .  .  Miss  Procter  63 
Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne     .  .     Watts  284 

Before  proud  Rome's  imperial  throne  B.  Barton  459 
Behold  her  single  in  the  field  .  .  Wordsworth  570 
Behold  the  flag  1     Is  it  not  a  flag?  R  H.  Newell  775 

Behold  the  sea  .         .         .         .  R.  II'.  Emerson  625 

Behold  the  young,  the  rosy  Spring  (Translation  of 

Thomas  Moore)     .         .         .         Anacrcon  309 

Behold  this  ruin  !  'T  was  a  sl<ull  .  Anonymous  622 
Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 

T.  Moore  114 
Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold  .  .  T.  Hood  ■  747 
Bending  between  me  and  the  taper  A.  De  Vere     109 

Beneath  a  shivering  canopy  reclined  Dr.  J.  Leyden  299 
Beneath  this  stonv  roof  reclined  Thos.Warton  325 

I  lie  was  a  shrewd  philosopher       Dr.  S.  Butler  737 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away  Shelley  309 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight  Longfellow        24 

Be  wise  to-day  ;  't  is  madness  to  defer     Young  615 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping  H.  Bonar  181 
Beyond  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies 

A  uonymous  266 
Bird  of  the  wilderness  .  .  .  Junes  Hogg  343 
Birds,  the  free  tenants  of  land,  air,  and  ocean 

Montgomery  351 
Blessings  on  thee,  little  man    .         .  Il'/nttier  26 

Blossom  of  the  almond-trees  .  .  E.Arnold  361 
Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind  .         Shakespeare     224 


Bobolink  !  that  in  the  meadow  .  .  Thos  Hill  345 
Bonnie  wee  thing  !  cannie  wee  thing  !     Bums  108 

Bunny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen  James  Hogg    C65 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead  Scott  429 

Bright  portals  of  the  sky  .  .  Drummond  277 
Bright  red  is  the  sun  on  the  waves  of  Lough  Sheelin 

Thos.  Davis  200 
"  Bring  forth  the  horse  1  "  the  horse  was  brought 

Byron  505 

Brutus,  my  lord  ! Shakespeare     130 

Buried  to-day Miss  Mulock    175 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee  1         .  R.  IV.  Emerson  354 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly  .  .  .  V.  Bonnie  612 
But  all  our  praises  why  should  lords  engross? 

Pope  710 

But  Enoch  yearned  to  see  her  face  again  Tennyson  166 

But  Fortune,  like  some  others  of  her  sex  Halleck  590 

But  happy  they  1  the  happiest  of  their  kind 

Thomson  1 25 

But  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done 

Shakespeare  387 
But  look  !  o'er  the  fall  see  the  angler  stand 

T.  B.  Read  520 
But  now  our  quacks  are  gamesters  Geo.  Crabbe      600 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below 

Goldsmith  137 
But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell?  Seattle  298 

"  But  why  do  vou  go?  "  said  the  lady  E-  B.  Browning  131 
By  the  wayside,  on  a  mossy  stone  Ralph  Hoyt     229 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound  Tennyson  182 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God  Mrs.  H emans   177 

Cano  carmen  sixpence,  a  corbis  plena  rye  Mater  A  user's 

Melodies  763 
Canute  was  by  his  nobles  taught  to  fancy  Peter  Pindar  738 
Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes  .         .         Burns  72 

Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer  1  G.  A .  Stevens  482 
Celia  and  I  the  other  day  .  .  Matt.  Prior  85 
Checks  as  soft  as  July  peaches  .  .  W.  C.  Bennett  4 
Child  of  the  later  days  !  .  .  .  Anonymous  543 
Children  of  Cod,  who,  faint  and  slow      Bawdier  283 

Christmas  is  here  ....  Thackeray  608 
Clang,  clang  !  the  massive  anvils  ring  Anonymous  423 
Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink        Camfibetl  151 

Clear  the  brown  path  to  meei  his  coulter's  gleam 

O .  IV.  Holmes  421 
Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  !  Byron  451 

Close  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  !  Boker  3S5 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise  T.  Dwight       445 

Come,  all  ye  jolly  shepherds  .  .  James  Hogg  82 
Come  back,  come  back  together  .  .  L.E.Laudon  9 
Come,  brother,  turn  with  me  from  pining  thought 

R.  //.  J)ana  267 
Come  !  fill  a  fresh  bumper  .  .  O.  IV.  Holmes  733 
Come  from  my  first,  ay  come  !  .  •  »  '.  /'/■  Praed  708 
Come  here,  come  here,  and  dwell  Barry  Cornwall  668 
Come,  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go  !  R.  //.  Dana  519 
Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning 

Thos.  Davis  72 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud  .         .         Tennyson  69 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree  IV.  C.  Bryant  361 

Come,  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free  Anonymous  496 
Come  live  with  me.  and  be  my  love  C  Mar  owe  73 
Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song  Shakespeare  655 
Come  on.  sir  :  here  's  the  place  .  .  Shakes 'care  326 
Come,  O  thou  Traveller  unknown  .  Chas    H'cs.ey    270 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom      .         .         .7".  Moore  7l 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged  S.  Fergu  on  424 
Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ?  Shakespeare  597 
Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  575 
Come  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace 

Sir  Ph.  Sidney  575 


ty- 


a 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


779 


a 


Come  then,  my  friend  !  my  genius  !  come  along 

Pope  31 

Come  to  me,  O  my  mother  !  .  .  David  Gray  142 
Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace  .  W.  L.  Bowles  326 
Come  unto  these  yellow  sands  .  .  Shakespeare  656 
Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little      .         Tennyson  161 

Could  I  pass  those  lounging  sentries        Punch  717 

Count  not  the  hours  while  their  silent  wings 

Horace  Twiss  34 
Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear  Shakespeare  238 
Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men         .         .    Milton  710 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played  .  John  Lyly  65 
Cursed  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow  Pope  596 

Daddy  Neptune,  one  day,  to  Freedom  did  say 

Thos.  Dibdin  443 
Dark  as  the  clouds  of  even  .  .  .  G.  H.  Boker  449 
Dark  is  the  night,  and  fitful  and  drearily 

Rev.  IV.  R.  Duryea   134 
Darkness  is  thinning  (Translation  of  J.  M.  Nealei 

St.  Gregory  the  Great  258 
Daughter  of  God  !  that  sitt'st  on  high  Win.  Penitent  373 
Day  dawned;  within  a  curtained  room  Barry  Cornwall  195 
Day  hath  put  on  his  jacket  .  .  O.  W.  Holmes  739 
Day  in  melting  purple  dying  .  .  Maria  Brooks  156 
Day  of  wrath,  that  day  of  burning 

Trans  by  A  br.  Coles,  M.  D.  262 
Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep  Scott  525 

Day  stars  !  that  ope  your  frownless  eyes  Horace  Smith  3^3 
Dead  !  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east 

E.  B.  Browning  192 
Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd  N.  Cotton  135 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove  J.  G.  Percival  476 

Defer  not  till  to-morrow  to  be  wise  Congreve  616 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  M alone,  Ohone  ! 

Chas.  Lever  105 
Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  Shakespeare     233 

Die  down,  O  dismal  day,  and  let  me  live  David  Gray  304 
Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore  Tennyson  304 

Deserted  by  the  waning  moon  Thos.  Dibdin  47) 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way?  C.  G.  Rossetti  261 
Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead  .      Tennyson  1^3 

Down  deep  in  a  hollow,  so  damp  Mrs.  R .  S.  Nichols  f72 
Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay  Anonymous  202 
Down  the  dimpled  greensward  dancing  Geo.  Darky  11 
Dow's  Flat.  That  's  its  name  .  .  F.  B.  Harte  764 
Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say?      .        Coleridge  45 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes  (Translation  of 

Ben  Jonson)  ....         Philostra.'us     608 
Drop,  drop,  slow  tears  .         .         .P.  P'letclter      258 

Duncan  Gray  cam'  here  to  woo       .         Burns  106 

Early  on  a  sunny  morning  .  .  .  Anonymous  93 
Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  Wordsworth  528 
Earth,  of  man  the  bounteou  mother  John  Sterling  420 
E'en  such  is  time  ;  which  takes  on  trust 

Sir  IV.  Raleigh  613 
England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still 

Cowper  442 

Ensanguined  man         ....     Thomson  509 

Eternal  Source  of  every  joy  !  .  .  Doddridge  279 
Ethereal  minstrel  !  pilgrim  of  the  sky!  Wordsworth  344 
Even  is  come  ;  and  from  the  dark  Park,  hark 

T.  Ifood  763 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam  I  .  .  John  Keats  629 
Every  day  brings  a  ship    .  .         R.  W.  Emerson  614 

Everyone,  by  instinct  taught  Montgomery   475 

iv  wedding,  says  the  proverb  P.  II '.  /'arsons    7} 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime  'P.  Moore          519 

Fain  would  I  love,  but  that  I  fear  Dr.  R    Hughes    59 

1  .cir    \im.  -it  the  terraced  house  E.  B.  Browning   62 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see          .  A".  Htrrick     369 

1   1     1  than  thee,  beloved    .       .  .    Anonymous       46 

1  ail  I  ■recce  I  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  !  Byron  463 


Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree  .  .  R.Herrick  361 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?  What  demi-god 

Shakespeare  40 

Fair  ship  that  from  the  Italian  shore         Tennyson  182 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France  .  .  M.  Drayton  386 
False  diamond  set  in  tiint  I  .  .  IV.  C.  Bryant  97 
False  world,  thou  ly'st  ;  thou  canst  not  lend 

F.  Quarles  612 

Fare  thee  well  !  and  if  forever  .  .  Byron  149 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  ! 

Shakespeare  237 
Farewell,  — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter  ! 

P.  Moore  197 

Farewell!  if  ever  fondest  prayer              Byron  149 

Farewell,  life  I  my  senses  swim  P.  Hood  239 
Farewell  I  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing 

Shakespeare  150 

Farewell,  thou  busy  world,  and  may  .  C.  Cotton  572 
Farewell  to  Lochaber,  and  farewell  my  Jean 

A .  Ramsay  14S 

Far  to  the  right  where  Apennine  ascends  Goldsmith  530 

Father  of  all  !  in  every  age       .         .         Pope  269 

Father  !  thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand  Jones  Very  266 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o:  the  sun  Shakespeare  190 
Fear  not,  O  little  flock  !  the  foe(Transl )  M.  Altenburg  3/. 
First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 

E.  B   Browning  1 1 1 
Flowers  are  fresh,  and  bushes  green  (Translation  of 

Lord  Strangford)    .         .         .         Camoens  22S 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes 

Burns  329 
Flung  to  the  heedless  winds  (Translation  of  W.  J. 

Fox) Martin  Panther  264 

"  Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me"             P.  Moore  68 

F"or  aught  that  ever  I  could  read             Shakespeare  158 

For  England  when  with  favoring  gale     C.  Dibdin  479 

For  one  long  term,  or  ere  her  trial  came  Canning  703 

For  Reform  we  feels  too  lazy      .         .     Punch  704 

For  Scotland's  and  for  freedom's  right    B    Barton  439 

For  thirty  years  secluded  from  mankind  Southey  702 
Fresh  from  the  fountains  of  the  wood      J.  II .  Bryant  657 

Friend  after  friend  departs  .         .         .     Montgomery  32 

Friends  !  I  came  not  here  to  talk            Miss  Mitford  436 

From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies          ll'a/ts  294 

From  gold  to  gray         ...              Whittier  316 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony  Dryden  588 

From  Sterling  Castle  we  had  seen  .  Wordsworth  330 
From  the  desert  I  come  to  thee  .         .  Bay,:              lor  71 

From  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit           J.  Bowring  278 

Full  fathom  five Sh  ikespeare  656 

Full  knee  deep  lies  the  winter  snow         Tennyson  619 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed    .        .        Barry  Cornwall  339 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  as  ye  may          .         R.Herrick  617 

Gay,  guiltless  pair        .         .         .         .    C.  SArague  347 

Genteel  in  personage  ...//.  Fielding  60 
Gentlefolks,  in  my  time,  I  've  made  many  a  rhyme 

C  Dibdin  489 

Gently  hast  thou  told  thy  message            Mil/on  232 

Gille  machree,  sit  down  by  me        .        G.  Griffin  133 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body  .         .         .         Burns  79 

nt  wid  the',  Jwohnny "      .         .     Anonymous  106 

me  more  love  or  more  disdain           T.  Carew  64 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet         Sir  II'.  Raleigh  259 

Give  me  three  grains  of  corn,  mother    Miss  Edwards  458 

'ice.  ye  lovers    ....    Lord  Surrey  41 

Glory  to  thee,  my  God,  this  night    .        Bishop  Ken  294 

"  t  lod  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep  I  " 

J.  G.  Saxe  742 
God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an  '  still 

J.  R.  Lowell  102 
God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 

Mary  Howitt  370 


<&- 


-ff 


God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way       .         Cowper  282 

God  of  the  thunder  !  ....  H.  H.  Milman  271 
God  prosper  long  our  noble  king  .  R.  Slieale  493 
God  shield  ye,  heralds  of  the  spring  (Translation) 

P.  Ronsard      306 
God's  love  and  peace  be  with  thee  Whittier  31 

Go,  feel  what  I  have  felt  .         .         Anonymous     417 

Go  from  me.     Yet  feel  that  I  shall  stand 

E.  B.  Browning  no 
Go,  happy  Rose  !  and,  interwove  R.  Herrick        73 

Gold  !  gold  !  gold  !  gold  !  T.  Hood  600 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! E.  Waller         45 

Gone  at  last E.  C.  Stedman  716 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone        .         .     Whittier  142 

Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nighted  color  off  Shakespeare  216 
"  Good  morrow,  fool,"  quoth  I  .  Shakespeare  618 
Good  morrow  to  thy  sable  beak  Joanna  Baillie  345 

Good  name  in  man  or  woman,  dear  my  lord 

Shakespeare     575 
Goodnight!  (Transl.  ofC.  T.  Brooks'    K'orner  426 

Good  reader,  if  you  e'er  have  seen  T.  Jl'oore         729 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest  .  .  Sir  W.  Raleigh  614 
Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child  .         .         Anonymous     195 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee   .        .  T.  Moore  396 

Great  Newton's  self,  to  whom  the  world  Lamb  759 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee  .         .         Nailed  32 

Green  grow  the  rashes  O    .        .        .    Bums  58 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass  Leigh  Hunt  356 
Guvener  B.  is  a  sensible  man  .  .  J.  R.  Lowell  769 
Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore  Burns  168 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  !  John  Logan  342 
Hail ,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven  firs:  born !  Milton  297 
Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances  !  Scott  394 
Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  !         .         .         Shelley  343 

Hamelin  Town  's  in  Brunswick  .  .  R.  Browning  640 
Happy  insect  !  ever  blest  .  .  Walter  H 'arte  355 
Happy  insect,  what  can  be  (Translation  of  Abraham 

Cowley) Anacreon         355 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care     Pope  134 

Hark  !  ah,  the  nightingale  !  .  .  Matt.  Arnold  349 
Hark  !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds  Byron  710 
Hark,  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings 

Shakespeare     344 
Hark  !  the  faint  bells  of  the  sunken  city  (Translation 

of  Jas.  Clarence  Mangan)  .        .     W.  Mueller     635 
Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 

Coleridge  280 

Ha  !   there   comes   he,  with    sweat  (Translation  of 

Charles  T.  Brooks)  .         .         Klopstock         435 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay 

O.  W.  Holmes   743 
Ha  !  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crawlin'  ferlie?  Burns  357 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  the  wind  is  chill    Scott  527 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells  .  .  E.A.Poe  538 
Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate 

Pope  615 

Heaven,  what  an  age  is  this  !  .        .        C.  Cotton  569 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free 

Ccnuper  461 
He  is  the  happy  man  whose  life  even  now  Cowper  570 
He  jests  at  scars  that  never  felt  a  wound  Shakespeare  100 
He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre 

Spenser  636 

Hence,  all  ye  vain  delights  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  224 
Hence,  loathed  Melancholy         .         .     Milton  583 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys        .         .         Milton  604 

Henry,  our  royall  king,  would  ride  a-hunting 

Anonymous     497 
Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  Sarah  Roberts  369 

Here  is  one  leaf  reserved  for  me  P-  Moore  45 

Here  or  elsewhere  (all 's  one  to  you  —  tome  Marten  702 
Here  's  the  garden  she  walked  across     A'.  Browning    49  | 


Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold  E.  B.  Browning  453 

Her  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white     O.  W.  Holmes  181 
Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day  J.  Aldrich        188 

Her  window  opens  to  the  bay  .         .         Whittier  153 

He  said  (I  only  give  the  heads)  .         .    Byron  718 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek       .         .         P.   Carew  61 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic        .         .    Dr.  S.  Butler  773 
He  was  of  that  stubborn  crew  .         .         Dr.  S.  Butler  291 
He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead      Byron  186 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart  Halleck  706 

His  puissant  sword  unto  his  side  Dr  S.  Butler  405 

His  young  bride  stood  beside  his  bed      Eliza  Cook       151 
Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race       Halleck  528 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead      Tennyson  199 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise  Pope  594 

Ho!  pretty  page  with  the  dimpled  chin    Thackeray         56 
Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man         Shakespeare       32 
Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  I  .         .         .    Sydney  Dobell  490 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  !       .         .         Longfellow       311 
How  beautiful  this  night  !  the  balmiest  sigh  Shelley       302 
How  calm  they  sleep  beneath  the  shade  C.  Kennedy      269 
How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood .         .         .         .        .         .    S.  Woodworth  27 

How  delicious  is  the  winning .         .         Campbell  78 

How  does  the  water  come  down  at  Lodore? 

R.  Southcy       773 
How  do  I  love  thee?     Let  me  count  the  ways 

P..  B.  Browning  in 
How  fine   has  the  day  been  !  how  bright  was  the 

sun  !    .         .....    Watts  314 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught   .       SirH.Wotton  571 
How  many  summers,  love    .         .         Barry  Cornwall  128 
How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects 

Shakespeare     576 
How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august 

Young  589 

How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  inherits 

Coleridge  574 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest     W.  Collins       429 
How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day 

J.  Grahame     285 
How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler  air 

R.  Bloomfield  374 
How  sweet  the  answer  echo  makes  T.Moore  55 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 

Shakespeare     583 
How  sweet  the  name  of  Jesus  sounds       Newton  272 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid 

T.  Moore  160 

How  wonderful  is  death  !     .         .         .    Shelley  577 

Husband  and  wife  !  no  converse  now  ye  hold 

R-  H .  Dana     217 
I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray        .        .        J.O'Kee/e       754 
"  I  am  by  promise  tied"      .  .    Scott  511 

am  in  Rome  !     Oft  as  the  morning  ray  Rogers  532 

am  monarch  of  all  I  survey        .        .  Cowper  573 

am  undone  ;  there  is  no  living,  none     Shakespeare     154 
arise  from  dreams  of  thee      .        .        Shelley  109 

asked  an  aged  man  with  hoary  hairs      Marsden  617 

asked  of  echo,  t'other  day        .        .    J.  G.  Saxe      736 
bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 

Shelley  633 

cannot,  cannot  say         .         .         .         W.  C.  R  178 

cannot  eat  but  little  meat  .         .     John  Still        732 

cannot  make  him  dead  !         .         .        John  Pierpont  185 
cannot  think  that  thou  shouldst  pass  away 

J  R.  Lowell    126 
care  not,  though  it  be        .        .        .    John  A'orris     48 
charm  thy  life         ....         Southry  679 

climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Helvellyn 

Scott  2tl 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern      Tennyson  327 


c& 


-ff 


~& 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


781 


'd  kind  o'  like  to  have  a  cot  .  .  Anonymous  136 
distinctly  remember  (and  who  dares  doubt  me?) 

R.  Buchanan  725 
do  not  love  thee  for  that  fair     .         .     T.  Careiv  41 

don't  appwove  this  hawid  waw  .  Anonymous  742 
don't  go  much  on  religion  .  .  John  Hay  757 
dreamed  that  as  I  wandered  by  the  way  Shelley  630 

t  as  a  flowre  doth  spread  and  die  .  G.  Herbert  257 
f  chance  assigned  ....  Sir  T.  fVyati  56 
I  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please  Graham  of  Gartmore  47 
fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden        .         Shelley  23 

feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale     .         .    Percival  310 

fever  you  should  come  to  Modena         Rogers  204 

fhe's  capricious,  she'll  be  so  .         C.  Palmore      114 

fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  .  E.  C.  Pinckney  39 

f  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing  ( Translation 

of  J.  E.  Taylor)     .         .         .  M.Angela         43 

fit  were  done,  when  't  is  done,  then  't  were  well 

Shakespeare  690 
f  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on  Shakespeare  585 
found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain  side      Beaumont  ana" 

Fletcher        583 
f  sleep  and  death  be  truly  one  Tennyson         182 

f  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps  Shelley  300 

f  that  the  world  and  love  were  young  Sir  IV.  Raleigh  73 
f  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays  R.  IV.  Emerson  614 

f  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight  A  nonymous        39 

f  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 

E.  B.  Browning  1 10 
f  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love  .  .  Bishop  lleber  128 
f  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart  .  .  T.  L.  Beddoes  186 
f  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright  Scott  526 

f  to  be  absent  were  to  be  .  .  Col.  R.  Lovelace  153 
f  women  could  be  fair  and  never  fond  A  nonymous  608 
grew  assured  before  I  asked  .  .  C.  Palmore  96 
had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry  mew  Shakespeare  604 
have  a  name,  a  little  name     .  E-  B.  Browning  17 

have  got  a  new-born  sister  .  .  Mary  Lamb  4 
have  had  playmates  .  .  .  Chas.  Lamb  230 
have  seen  a  nightingale  (Translation  of  Thomas 

Roscoe)  .  .  Estevan  Manuel  de  I  'illegas  349 
have  traced  the  valleys  fair  .  .  John  Clare  54 
have  swung  for  ages  to  and  fro  R.  IV.  Raymond  653 
heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  night  Longfellow  304 
in  these  flowery  meads  would  be  /.   Walton       520 

knew  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curled 

T.  Moore  136 

like  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase  .    Longfellow      178 

'11  hold  thee  any  wager  .        .        Shakespeare    561 

love,  and  have  some  cause  .  .  F.  Qttarles  258 
love  it,  I  love  it  I  and  who  shall  dare  Eliza  Cook  28 
love  at  eventide  to  walk  alone  .  John  Clare  313 
love  contemplating  —  apart       .         .     Campbell  489 

loved  a  lass,  a  fair  one  .  .  .  Geo.  Wither  168 
loved  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone 

W.  S.  Landor  200 
loved  thee  long  and  dearly  .  .P.P.  Cooke  233 
loved  thee  once,  I'll  love  no  more  Sir  R.  Ayton  171 

love  thee,  love  thee,  Giulio  I  E.  B.  Browning  146 

love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice  O-  W.  Holmes  356 

'm  a  careless  potato,  and  care  not  a  pin  T.  Moore  363 
made  a  posie,  while  the  day  ran  by  G.  Herbert  610 
met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land     Shelley  542 

met  him  in  the  cars  .  .  .  G  H.  Clark  745 
mind  me  in  the  irted        E.  B.  Browning       27 

'm  in  love  with  you,  baby  Louise  !        M  E.  6 

1  innocent  nature  Milton    638 
'msittin'  on  the  style,  Mary  .        .      Lady  Dufferin  203 

I  'm  wearing  awa\  Jean     .       .        .    Lady  Nairn    181 

In  a  dirty  old  house  lived  a  dirty  old  man 

IV.  Allingham  206 


In  a  land  for  antiquities  greatly  renowned 

Jane  Taylor   6ji 

n  a  valley  centuries  ago  .  .  .  A  nonymous  620 
n  a  valley  far  away  .  .  '.  Thos.  Davis  130 
ndeed  this  very  love  which  is  my  boast 

E.  B.  Browning  no 

need  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song 

J.  R.  Lowell  702 
n  either  hand  the  hastening  angel  caught    Milton        233 

never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away  E.  B.  Browning  no 
n  good  King  Charles's  golden  days  Anonymous  754 
n  heavy  sleep  the  Caliph  lay     .         .     J.  F.  C.  673 

n  Kbln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones     Coleridge  736 

n  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  R.  W.  Emerson  366 

n  Pxstum's  ancient  fanes  I  trod  R.  IV.  Raymond  532 
n  Sana,  O,  in  Sana,  God,  the  Lord  .  G.  H.  Boker  5C3 
n  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor-boy  lay 

W.  Dimond  484 
n  summer,  when  the  days  were  long  Anonymous  80 
n  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges  Longfellow      577 

n  the  days  that  tried  our  fathers  R.H.  Newell  775 

n  the  fair  gardens  of  celestial  peace  .  H.  B.  Stowe  176 
n  the  hollow  tree  in  the  old  gray  tower 

Barry  Cornwall  354 
n  the  hour  of  my  distress  .         R.  Herrick      263 

11  the  merry  month  of  May        .        .    Punch  758 

n  their  ragged  regimentals  .  .  G-  H.  Mc Master  446 
n  the  silence  of  my  chamber  .  .  W.  E.  Aytoun  231 
11  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan  .         Wordsworth    245 

n  this  one  passion  man  can  strength  enjoy 

Pope  601 

n  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared  W.  Falconer  485 
n  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan         .         .    Coleridge  643 

phigenia,  when  she  heard  her  doom  W.  S.  Landor  678 
prithee  send  me  back  my  heart  .  Sir  J.  Suckling  47 
remember,  I  remember      .         .         .     T.  Hood  19 

saw  him  kiss  your  cheek!  .  .  C.  Palmare  78 
saw  him  once  before  .         •         .    O.  W.  Holmes  225 

saw  two  clouds  at  morning   .  J.  G  C.  Brainard   57 

sing  about  a  subject  now  .  .  London  Diogenes  786 
sing  of  a  shirt  that  never  was  new  I 

Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.  748 
s  it  indeed  so?  If  I  lay  here  dead  E.  B  Browning  in 
s  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa  palm         .         Whittier  360 

sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin  .  .  Tennyson  182 
sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he  R.  Browning  397 
stand  on  Zion's  mount      .        .        •    C.  Swain  283 

s  there  a  whim-inspired  fool  .         .         Burns  708 

s  there  for  honest  poverty  .         .        .    Bums  252 

s  there  when  the  winds  are  singing  Laman  Blanchard  13 
s  this  a  fast,  —  to  keep        .         .        .    R.  Herrick      260 
stood,  one  Sunday  morning  ■         .         R.  M.  Milnes   246 
think  of  thee  1  my  thoughts  do  twine  and  bud 

E.  B.  Browning  in 
thought  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err  J.R.Lowell  127 
t  is  an  ancient  mariner       .        .        .    Coleridge  645 

t  is  done  I Whittier  463 

t  is  not  beauty  I  demand  .  .  .  A  nonymous  60 
t  is  not  growing  like  a  tree  .  .  Ben  Jonson  565 
t  is  the  miller's  daughter     .         .         .    Tennyson  50 

t  must  be  so.     Plato,  thou  rcasonest  well  I 

Addison  624 

travelled  among  unknown  men  .  Wordsworth  442 
t  was  a  beauty  that  I  saw  .  .  .  Ben  Jonson  42 
t  was  a  dreary  day  in  Padua  .  .  G.  H .  Baker  680 
t  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray  .        .        .     Thos.  Percy      87 


t  was  a  summer  evening 
t  was  in  my  foreign  travel 


Southey 
J.  G.  Saxe 


375 
7-7 


r'J- 


ff 


a 


782 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 
"  It  was  our  wedding  day  " 
It  was  the  autumn  of  the  year 
It  was  the  wild  midnight . 
It  was  upon  an  April  morn 


.    E.  A  .  Poe        205 

Bayard  Taylor  127 

Florence  Percy  159 

Geo.  Croly         430 

.  II '.  E.  Aytoun   391 


I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west 

// ".  Motherwell  154 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud   .         .         Wordstvorth  369 

I  was  in  Margate  last  July     Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.  749 

I  weigh  not  fortune's  frown  or  smile         J-  Sylvester  567 

I  went  to  the  garden  of  love  .  .  Wm.  Blake  607 
I  will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  mother 

A.  C.  Swinburne  205 

I  will  not  have  the  mad  Clytie     .         .     T.  Hood  364 

I  will  paint  her  as  I  see  her     .         .    E.  B.  Browning-  24 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies  !          .    Anonymous  197 

I  would  I  were  an  excellent  divine  .         N.  Breton  260 

I  would  I  were  on  yonder  hill      .         .    Anonymous  200  I 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends    Cowper  598 

1  would  nut  live  alway          .         .   W-  A.  Muhlenberg  180 

Jaffar,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  Vizier    Leigh  Hunt  581 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met     .         .     Leigh  Hunt  25 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul                               C.   Wesley  273 

Jingle,  jingle,  clear  the  way          .         .    G.  W,  Pettee  518 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John    .         .        Burns  129 

John  Dobbins  was  so  captivated  .  R.  S.  S.  759 
Jorasse  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year 

Rogers  503 

Jumping  over  gutters  ....    Anonymous  767 

Just  as  1  am,  —  without  one  plea  .  Anonymous  274 
Just  in  the  dubious  point,  where  with  the  pool 

Thomson  520 
Just  in  thy  mould  and  beauteous  in  thy  form 

J.  F.  Cooper  479 

King  Francis  was  a  hearty  king  .        .    Leigh  Hunt  574 

Kissing  her  hair,  I  sat  against  her  feet  A .  C.  Swinburne  107 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low  .  J.  G.  Saxe  yS 
Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 

Byron  337 
Lambro,  our  sea-solicitor,  who  had 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 
Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs 
Laud  the  first  spring  daisies     . 
Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow     . 
Laws,  as  we  read  in  ancient  sages    . 
Lay  him  beneath  his  snows 
Leave  wringing  of  your  hands  . 
"  Less  wretched  if  less  fair  " 
Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old 
Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street   W.  C.  Bryant  572 

Let  Sporus  trembie       ....    Pope  719 

Let  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  morning  breezy  T.Hood  741 

Let  them  sing  who  may  of  the  battle  fray  Anonymous  421 
Leuconomus  (beneath  well-sounding  Greek) 

Cowper  718 
Life  I   I  know  not  what  thou  art        .     A.  L.  Barbat/ld  177 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways          .    J.  R.  Lowell  714 

Light  as  a  flake  of  foam  upon  the  wind   Montgomery  474 


.    Byron 
T.  B.  Macaulay  431 
Sir  F.  H.  Doyle  385 

Edward  Youl  307 
.    Shakespeare     562 

Beattie  600 

.    Miss  Midock     713 

Shakespeare     679 
E.  B.  Browning  453 

T.  Moore  455 

.    Bums  65 


Like  as  the  armed  Knighte 
Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see 
Like  the  violet,  which  alone 
Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 
Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star 
Linger  not  long. 


Anne  Askew  264 
Simon  Wast  ell  186 
W.  Habingtou    44 
T.  Lodge  39 

Henry  King    187 


Home  is  not  home  without  thee 

Anonymous  157 
Lithe  and  long  as  the  serpent  train  .  W.  G.  Simms  360 
Little  Ellie  sits  alone  .  •  .  E.  B.  Browning  20 
Little  C ;retchen,  little  Gretchen  wanders  A  nonymous  249 
Little  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few  O.  IV.  Holmes  568 


Thos.  Gray 
R.  H.  Barham 
■    A.  Cherry 
Thos.  Lodge 
S.  Daniel 
A  nonymous 
A  nonymous 


Barry  Corn  will 
.    Longfellow 

Byron 
.    Montgomery 


Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth   .         .         .    Cowper 
Lochiel,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day       Campbell 
Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes    Miss  Mulock 
"  Look  at  the  clock  !  "  quoth  Winifred  Pryce 

'Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq. 
Look  in  my  face ;  my  name  is  Might-have-been 

D.  G.  Rossetti 
Look  round  our  world  ;  behold  the  chain  of  love 

Pope 
Lord,  I  am  weeping      .         .         .  Sydney  P obeli 

Lord  John  stood  in  his  stable  door  Anotiymous 

Lord  of  the  winds!  I  feel  thee  nigh     .     W.  C.  Bryant 
Lord  !  when  those  glorious  lights  I  see   Geo.  Wither 
Lord,  who  ordainest  for  mankind         .     W.  C.  Bryant 
Lo  1  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace 

Spenser 
Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours 

Loud  and  clear 

Loud  roared  the  dreadful  thunder 

Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee   . 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes      . 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long !  • 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace 

Love  not,  love  not  !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 

C.  E.  Notion 
Low  on  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  sight 

R.  Bloomjield 
Lucy  is  a  golden  girl 
Maiden  !  with  the  meek  brown  eyes 
Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part     . 
"  Make  way  for  Liberty  !  "  he  cried 
Malbrouck,  the  prince  of  commanders  (French) 

Translation  0/  Mahony 
Man's  home  is  everywhere.     On  ocean's  flood 

L.  H.  Sigoitrney 
Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart  Byron 
"Man  wants  but  little  here  below"     .     %  Q.  Adams 
Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be      .        Shelley 
March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale    Scott 
Margarita  first  possessed  . 
Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
Mary,  I  believed  thee  true 
Mary  to  her  Saviour's  tomb         . 
Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day 
May  the  Babylonish  curse  . 
Maxwelton  braes  are  bonny 
Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning   Waller 
Men  dying  make  their  wills  — but  wives  'J.  G.  Saxe 
Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed         W.  C-  Bryant 

Merry  Margaret John  Skelton 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam 

J.  H.  Payne 
Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  !  H.  K.  White 
Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill    .        .        Rogers 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory     .         .    7.  W.  Howe 
Mine  eyes  he  closed,  but  open  left  the  cell 

Milton 
Moan,  moan,  ye  dying  gales  !       .        .    Henry  Neele 
More  strange  than  true  :  I  never  may  believe 

Shakespeare 
Mortals,  awake  !  witli  angels  join         .    Medley 
Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors 

Shakespeare 
Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes       Wordsworth 
Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast 

Congreve 

"  Music  1  "  they  shouted,  echoing  my  demand 

Bayard  'Taylor 
Music,  when  soft  voices  die  .    Shelley 

My  beautiful,  my  beautiful  1      .        .        C  E.  Norton 
My  boat  is  on  the  shore        .  Byron 

My  chaise  the  village  inn  did  gain  Anonymous 


A.  Cowly 
L  ord  Surrey 
T.  Moore 
Newton 
11  'htttier 
Chas.  Lamb 
A  nonymous 


356 
440 


75" 
613 

333 
142 


53° 
2S0 
272 


121 

308 
54i 
481 

65 
55 
61 
61 

235 

3'4 
49 

2r 

>4* 
436 

405 

589 

59° 
567 

335 
396 

53 
135 
16S 
277 

75 
4'5 

54 

98 
729 
345 

38 

133 
366 

134 
462 

122 
224 

567 
272 

99 
566 

585 

108 

58S 
517 


708 
246 


te-- 


j 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


783 


a 


My  curse  upon  thy  venomed  stang  Burns  602 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray  Earl  of Montrose    60 

"  My  ear-rings,  my  ear-rings  "  .  .  J.  G.  Lockhart  96 
My  eyes!  how  I  love  you  .         .        Anonymous        74 

My  genius  spreads  her  wing  .  .  Goldsmith  536 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither  .  .  Shakespeare  655 
My  girl  hath  violet  eyes  and  yellow  hair  R.  Buclianan.  103 
My  God,  I  love  thee  !  not  because  (Translation  of 

Edward  Caswell)   .         •         .         .    St.  F.  Xavier  257 
My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years  Byron  551 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood         Scott  517 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

John  Keats  236 
My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold  .  Wordsworth  323 
My  heart 'sin  the  Highlands      .         .    Bums  514 

My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie  .      W.  Motherwell  174 

My  letters  !  all  dead  paper,  mute  and  white 

E.  B.  Browning  in 
My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose  .  .  R.H.Wilde  610 
My  little  love,  do  you  remember  .  Bulwer-Lytton  77 
My  loved,  my  honored,  much-respected  friend 

Burns  291 

My  love  he  built  me  a  bonnie  bower  Anonymous  207 
My  love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die 

J.  R.  Lowell  126 
My  love  in  her  attire  doth  show  her  wit  A  nonymous  47 
My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is  Wm.  Byrd      565 

My  mother  sighed,  the  stream  of  pain  J.  P.  Curran  426 
My  mule  refreshed,  his  bells        .         .    Rogers  335 

My  name  is  Norval  :  on  the  Grampian  hills 

John  Home  502 
My  native  land,  thy  Puritanic  stock  R.  H.  Xewell  774 
My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares  C.  1  ychborn  613 
My  sister  !  my  sweet  sister  !  if  a  name    Byron  138 

My  soul  to-day  .         .         .         .         T.  B.  Read      631 

Mysterious  night  !  when  our  first  parent  knew 

Blanco  White  302 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his 

Sir  Ph.  Sidney  57 
My  voice  is  still  for  war  .         .         .         Addison  435 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee  .  .  .  S.  F.  Adams  278 
Needy  knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going? 

G.  Canning  726 
Never  any  more  .  .  .  .  R.  Browning  166 
Never  wedding,  ever  wooing        .  Campbell  64 

Next  to  thee,  O  fair  gazelle  .  .  Bayard  Taylor  359 
Night  is  the  time  for  rest  .  .  .  Montgomery  303 
Night  was  again  descending    .         .         Rogers  332 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong       Whittier  703 

No  single  virtue  we  could  most  commend  Dryden  196 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea  Sou/hey  482 

No  sun  —  no  moon  !         ...         T.  Hood  317 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note  Chas.  Wolfe  717 
Not  a  sous  had  he  got  Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.  767 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day  Scott  387 

Nothing  but  leaves  ;  the  spirit  grieves  A  nonymous  269 
X  1  .1-  you  meant,  0  learned  man  A.  D.  F.  Randolph  275 
Not  in  the  laughing  bowers  .         .    Anonymous      223 

\. .  1  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time  Tennyson  558 

Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  crav 

4  Milton  301 

Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by 

Wm.   M orris     83 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear  Anonymous  10 
Now  stop  your  noses,  readers,  all  and  some 

Dryden  719 
Now  the;  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger 

Milton  310 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days    .         .    Shelley  333 

Now  th                  ice  on  the  shore       .      J.  G.  Lockhart  406 

'»•  third  and  fatal  conflict  .        .    R.C.  Trench  581 

Now  to  the  haven  of  thy  breast       .         Chas.  Wesley  273 


Now  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses  T.  Moore  337 
Now  westward  Sol  had  spent  the  richest  beams 

R.  Crashaw  350 

O,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  green  C.  Dickens  370 
Oaths  terminate,  as  Paul  observes,  all  strife 

Cowper  594 
O  beauteous  God  !  uncircumscribed  treasure 

Jeremy  Taylor  266 
O  blest  of  heaven,  whom  not  the  languid  songs 

Mark  Akeuside  630 

O  blithe  new  coiner  !  I  have  heard           Wordsworth  342 

O,  breathe  not  his  name  !         .         .         T.  Moore  455 

O  Caledonia  !  stern  and  wild    .         .         Scott  441 

O,  came  ye  ower  by  the  Yoke-burn  Ford  James  Hogg  500 
O  dearest  Lamb,  take  thou  my  heart ! 

Moravian  Collection  276 
O,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone  //'.  C.  Bryant  610 

O,  dinna  ask  me  gin  1  lo'e  ye  Duulop  79 

O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea  Byron  478 

O  faint,  delicious,  springtime  violet  !  W.  W.  Story  367 
O  fairest  of  creation,  last  and  best  Milton  130 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart  .  .  Harry  Carey  52 
Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer    Byron  711 

Of  all  the  notable  things  on  earth  J.  G.  Saxe       728 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are  E.  B.  Browning  576 
Of  all  the  torments,  all  the  cares  Wm.  Walsh       59 

Of  a' the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw     .        Burns  153 

O  Father,  let  me  not  die  young  !  .  .  Anonymous  288 
Of  Nelson  and  the  North         .         .         Campbell  4S6 

O  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness      Cowper  462 

O,  formed  by  nature,  and  refined  by  art  T.  Tickell  123 
Oft  have  I  seen,  at  some  cathedral  door  Longfellow  527 
Oft  in  the  stilly  night  .         .         .         .     T.  Moore  227 

O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain .         .         Bennett  607 

O  God,  methinks,  it  were  a  happy  life  Shakespeare  135 
O  God  !  our  help  in  ages  past.         .         Watts  271 

O  God  !  though  sorrow  be  my  fate  (Translation) 

Mary  Queen  of  Hungary  262 


O,  go  not  yet,  my  love         .        .        •     Tetmyson 
O  happiness  !  our  being's  end  and  aim  !  Pope 
O  happy  day  that  fixed  my  choice  Doddridge 

O,  happy,  happy,  thrice  happy  state        T.  Hood 
Oh  !  best  of  delights,  as  it  everywhere  is  T.  Moore 


146 
57i 
275 
758 
85 
■  76 

5i;5 


O  hearts  that  never  cease  to  yearn  Anonymous 

Oli!  it  is  excellent  ....         Shakespeare 
O,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear  1 
O,  how  the  thought  of  God  attracts         Faber  284 

O,  I  have  passed  a  miserable  night  !         Shakespeare    578 
O  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art !  Rogers  531 

O,  it  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease      Coleridge  634 

Old  man,  God  bless   you  !  (Translation  of  Charles 

T.  Brooks)  ....         Pfeffel 

Old  Master  Brown  brought  his  ferule  down 

A  nonymous 
Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might        C.  Mackay 
Old  wine  to  drink  !         .         .         .     R.  H.  Messenger  609 

0  lovely  Mary  Donelly,  it  's  you  I  love  the  best  ! 

W.  A  llingham    52 
O,  luve  will  venture  in  where  it  daurna  weel  be  seen 

Burns 

1  1  Man  ius,  Marcius 
( >  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  !     . 
1  >  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 
O  melancholy  bird,  a  winter's  day 
O  mighty  Caesar  !  dost  thou  lie  so  low 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming?  Shakespeare      sr 
O  mother  dear,  Jerusalem  .         .  David  Dickson  257 

O  mother  of  a  mighty  race      .        .        W.  C.  Bryant  444 
(),  my  ('rod  !  can  it  be  possible  I  have     She/by  695 

(  )  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose  Burnt  144 

1 1,  my  love  's  like  the  steadfast  sun     A.  Cunningham  127 


Gerald  Massey  124 


398 

26 
376 


S3 

Shakespeare       33 
Burns  5 1 

C.  Kings  ley     483 
Lord  Thurlow  353 
Shakespeare    693 


[&-- 


■ff 


r84 


IXDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


"^O: 


On  a  hill  there  grows  a  flower  .         .         N.  Breton  3S 

On  Alpine  heights  the  love  of  God  is  shed  (Transla- 
tion of  Charles  T.  Brooks)    .         .    Krumntacher   332 
O  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me      .      T.  Percy,  D.  D.     71 
On  came  the  whirlwind  —  like  the  last     Scott  402 

Once  Switzerland  was  free  !  .  .  J.  S.  Knowles  437 
Once  there  was  a  gardener  (From  the  German  of 

Miller) J.C.  Mangan  727 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands  //'.  C.  Bryant  373 
Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary .  .  E.  A.  Poe  652 
On  deck,  beneath  the  awning  .  .  Thackeray  479 
One  day,  as  I  was  going  by     .         .         T.  Hood  8 

One  day  I  wandered  where  the  salt  sea-tide  Anon.  596 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  yrksome  way  Spenser  637 

One  hue  of  our  flag  is  taken  .  .  R.  H.  Newel  775 
One  more  unfortunate  T.  Hood  250 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore  Pope  43 
One  year  ago,  —  a  ringing  voice  H.  B.  Stowe    185 

On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand  Chas.  Wesley  265 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low  Campbell         398 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows  .  .  Anonymous  267 
O  no,  no,  —  let  me  lie  ...   John  Pierpont  379 

O  North,  with  all  thy  vales  of  green  !  //'.  C.  Bryant  275 
O,  now  forever  ....         Shakespeare     696 

On  Richmond  Hill  there  lives  a  lass        Upton  51 

On  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark  Spanish  maiden 

Whittier  363 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 

N.  P.  Willis  341 
On  what  foundations  stands  the  warrior's  pride 

*S\  Johnson  709 
On  woodlands  ruddy  with  autumn  W.  C.  Bryant  382 

On  yonder  hill  a  castle  stands  A  nonymous      509 

O  perfect  Light,  which  shaid  away  A.  Hume         371 

O,  pour  upon  my  soul  again  .  .  W.  Allston  227 
O  reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see     Southey  360 

O  reverend  sir,  I  do  declare  .  •  F-  M.  Whitcher  768 
O'Ryan  was  a  man  of  might  .  .  Miles  O'Reilly  730 
O  sacred  Head,  now  wounded  .  PaulGerhardt  276 
O,  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley     .         .         .  Burns  154 

O,  saw  ye  the  lass  wi'  the  bonny  blue  ecu  ? 

R.  Ryan  50 

O  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 

F.  S.  Key  447 
O  say,  what  is  that  thing  called  Light     C.  Cibber  244 

O,  sing  unto  my  roundelay  !  .  .  T.  Chatterton  206 
O,  snatched  away  in  beauty's  bloom  !     Byron  188 

O  that  the  chemist's  magic  art        .         Rogers  607 

O  that  those  lips  had  language  .         .     Cowper  18 

O  the  banks  of  the  Lee,  the  banks  of  the  Lee 

Thos.  Davis  126 
O  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom  !  Mary  Hoivitt  366 

O  the  charge  at  Balaklava  !  .  .  A.  B.  Meek  406 
O  the  days  are  gone  when  beauty  bright    T.Moore  167 

O,  the  French  are  on  the  say  !  .  .  Anonymous  455 
O  the  gallant  fisher's  life  .         .         J.  Chalkhill    521 

O  then  I  see,  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you 

Shakespeare  656 
O  the  pleasant  days  of  old  .  .  Frances  Brown  465 
O  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  J.  W.  Watson  251 

O,  those  little,  those  little  blue  shoes  W.  C.  Bennett  16 
O  thou  of  home  the  guardian  Lar  J-  R.  Loiuell  130 

O  thou  vast  Ocean  !  Barry  Cornwall  472 

O  trifling  toys  that  toss  the  brains  Anonymous      611 

O  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death 

Milton  232 

O  unseen  spirit  !  now  a  calm  divine  John  Sterling  299 
Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried  W.  C.  Bryant  446 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  —  for  the  night-cloud  had 

lowered Campbell  378 

Our  Father  Land  !  and  wouldst  thou  know 

Samuel  Lover  591 


Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air  E.  C.  Stcdman  3S6 
Our  life  is  twofold  ;  sleep  has  its  own  world 

Byron  579 

Our  revels  now  are  ended  .  .  Shakespeare  674 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air  .  .  Longfellow  320 
Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 

Miss  K.  P.  Osgood  375 
Outstretched  beneath  the  leafy  shade  R.&>  C.  Southey  2S8 
Ov  all  the  housen  o'  the  pliace  .  .  W.  Barnes  51 
Over  hill,  over  dale,  .         .         .        Shakespeare     656 

Over  the  dumb  campagna  sea  .  E.  B.  Browning  334 
Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me  N.  A.  W.  Priest  179 
O,  waly,  waly  up  the  bank  .  .  .  Anonymo?is  J73 
O,  weep  for  Moncontour  !  .  .  T.  B.  Macaiday  438 
"  O,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms  "  John  Keats  609 
"  O  what  is  that  comes  gliding  in  "  T.  Hood  746 


O,  when  't  is  summer  weather 
O,  wherefore  come  ye  forth 


.     W.  L.  Bowles  325 
T.  B.  Macaulay  438 


O,  where  shall  rest  be  found  .  .  Montgomery  2&S 
O  whistle,  and  I  '11  come  to  you,  my  lad   Bums  73 

O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? 

A  nonymous  195 
O  wild  west-wind,  thou  breath     .         .    Shelley  334 

O,  will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news  ?  Thackeray       730 

O  winter  !  wilt  thou  never,  never  go?  David  Gray  321 
O  World !  O  Life  !  O  Time  !    .         .        Shelley  225 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel'     .         .    Burns  604 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west 

Scott  115 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day  T.  Heywood  298 
Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully  N.  P.  Willis  689 
Pauline,  by  pride  .         .         .  Buhner- Lyttou  159 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us 

F.  S.  Osgood  425 
Peace  !  let  the  long  procession  come  R.  H.  Stoddard  715 
Peace!  what  can  tears  avail?  .  .  Barry  Cornwall  151 
Phillis  is  my  only  joy  ....  Sir  C.  Sedley  48 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu  .  .  .  Scott  393 
Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beechwood  spray 

T.  Westwood  631 
Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green  Longfellow  566 
Pleasing  't  is,  O  modest  Moon  !  .  .  H.K.  White  421 
Ponderous  projectiles,  hurled  by  heavy  hands 

R.H.  Newell  774 
"  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  " 

Miss  Mulock        425 
Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise  A.  L.  Barbaidd  278 

Prize  thou  the  nightingale    (Translation  of  John 

Bowring) M.  T.  Visscher  348 

Put  the  broidery  frame  away  .  .  E.  B.  Browning  139 
Quivering  fears,  heart-tearing  cares      Sir  H.  Wotton  521 

Rear  high  thy  bleak  majestic  hills  W.  Roscoe        705 

Rest  there  awhile,  my  bearded  lance  Horace  Smith  770 
Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot  Anonymous      381 

Ring  out  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky  Tennyson  617 

Ring,  sing  !  ring,  sing  !  .  .%  .  R.  Buchanan  668 
Rise,  sleep  no  more  .         .         •  Barry  Cornwall  51 4 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me  .  .  A  .  M.  Toplady  274 
Rome,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more  Mrs.  Hemans  535 

"  Room  for  the  leper  !  Room  !  "  N.  P-  Willis     536 

Roprecht  the  Robber  is  taken  at  last       Southey  761 

Said  I  not  so,  —  that  I  would  sin  no  more  ? 

G.  Herbert  263 
Samiasa  !  I  call  thee,  I  await  thee  Byron  68 
Saviour,  when  in  dust  to  thee  .  .  Sir  R.  Grant  263 
Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again 

E.  B.  Browning  in 


CO- 


cu 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


785 


ft 


R .  Bloo7nfield  340 
.  I .  Mar-jell  324 
// '.  C.  Bryant  663 
Lord  Bristol  326 
y<?/2«  Dyer  309 
Harrison  IVeir  344 
Montgomery    265 


Say,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  felt 

See  how  the  orient  dew     . 

"  See,  mother  dear,"  she  said 

See,  O  see !        .        .        .        . 

See,  the  flowery  spring  is  blown  . 

See  yon  robin  on  the  spray 

Servant  of  God,  well  done     . 

Shall  I  love  thee  like  the  wind,  love  R.  If-'.  Raymond   61 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love?  .         Wm.  Browne    60 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair  .         .         .    Geo.  Wither      64 

Shame  upon  thee,  savage  monarch  —  man 

M.  F.  Tupper  598 
Shed  no  tear,  O,  shed  no  tear  .         .         John  Kats 
She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways      Wordsworth 
She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing  .         .    Burns 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view         .         H.  Coleridge 
She  moves  as  light  across  the  grass         Miss  Mulock 
Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  340 
She  says,  "  The  cock  crows,  —  hark  !  "  (Chinese) 

Translation  of  l>Vm.  R.  Alger 
She  shrank  from  all,  and  her  silent  mood 

L-  E.  Landon 
She  sits  in  a  fashionable  parlor     .        .    Stark 
She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn        T.  Hood 
She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night  Byron 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight  Wordsworth 

Shines  the  last  age  R.  W.  Emerson  625 

Short  is  the  doubtful  empire  of  the  night  Thomson        311 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot  Burns 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John  !  Pope 


657 

194 

126 

43 

62 


147 

215 
728 

74 
44 
43 


609 
602 


Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye  !  John  Dyer      327 

Since  faction  ebbs,  and  rogues  grow  out  of  fashion 

Dryden  735 

Since  our  foes  to  invade  us  .  .  .  Anonymous  444 
Since  there  's  no   helpe,  —  come  let  us   kisse  and 

parte M.  Drayton       150 

Singing  through  the  forests  .  .   J.  G.  Saxe        744 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  !  T.  T.  Stoddart  520 
Sir  Marmaduke  was  a  hearty  knight  Geo.  Colman  756 
Sit  down,  sad  soul,  and  count  Barry  Cornwall  268 

Six  skeins  and  three,  six  skeins  and  three  A  lice  Carey  9S 
Six  years  had  passed,  and  forty  ere  the  six 

Geo.  Crabbe     226 
Sleek  coat,  eyes  of  fire  .         •         .    A  nonymous         6 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee  Leigh  Hunt  15 
Sleep  on  !  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile  !  Rogers  47 

Sleep !  —  The  ghostly  winds  are  blowing 

Barry  Cornwall  172 
Slowly  thy  flowing  tide     .         .         .         Southcy  612 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled  Tennyson  407 

So  fallen  !  so  lost  !  the  light  withdrawn  Whi/tier  713 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath  Barry  Cornwall  179 

Soldier,  rest  I  thy  warfare  o'er         .        Scott  374 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do   .         .     Tennyson  183 

Somebody  's  courting  somebody  A  nonymous       97 

Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land 

Dryden  7 1 8 

Some  of  your  hurts  you  have  cured    R.  W.  Emerson  625 
I1.1t  kissing  's  a  sin       .         .     Anonymous        79 
Sometimes  I  catch  sweet  glimpses  of  His  face 

H.  Bonar         276 
Some  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste  // '.  M.  I'racd  560 

;h  is  grandeur  to  our  dust  R.  IV.  Emerson  625 

So  the  truth  'sout.     I  '11  gr.i.  ip  it  like  a  snake 

Mi  .t  Mulock      165 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea 

T.  Moore  183 

Source  immaterial  0!  material  naught  R.H. Newell  775 
Speak,  O  man,  less  recent  !     Fragmentary  fossil  ! 

/•'.  B.  //arte     731 


I  Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice   W.  C.  Bryant  299 

,  Spring  it  is  cheery        .         .        .        .    T.  Hood  225 

Spring,  the  sweet  spring  ...         7".  Nash  309 

j  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  —  ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  John  Keats     117 

Stand  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray  W.  C.  Bryant  320 

Stand  !  the  ground  's  your  own,  my  braves  ! 

John  Pierpont  446 
Star  of  the  mead  !  sweet  daughter  of  the  day 

Dr.  Leyden      367 
Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee  . 
;  Stay,  jailer,  stay,  and  hear  my  woe  ! 
Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake 
Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 
Stop,  mortal !  here  thy  brother  lies 
Such  were  the  notes  thy  once-loved  poet  sung 

Pope 
Summer  joys  are   o'er  (Translation  of  Charles  T 

Brooks) Ludwig  H'dlty  317 


Campbell  300 

Geo .  M.  Lewis  236 
Mrs-  Opie  247 
Ben  Jonson  593 
Eben.  Elliott  705 


709 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low       .         .  Tennyson  7 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain 

Goldsmith  545 
Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes  R.  Herrick  58 
Sweet  bird  !  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 

W.  Drummond  344 
Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright  G.  Herbert  186 
Sweeter  and  sweeter  .  .  .  .  J.  W.  Palmer  23 
Sweetest  Saviour,  if  my  soul  .  .  G-  Herbert  z-jt, 
Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower  Wordsworth  23 
Sweet  is  the  pleasure  .  .  .  J.  S.  Divight  419 
Sweetly  breathing  vernal  air  .         .     T.  Carew         308 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade 

Cowper  2 1 

I  Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave         Shelley  302 

Sword,  on  my   left   side  gleaming  (Translation  of 

Charles  T.  Brooks)        .         .         .    K'drner  39.9 

Take  back  into  thy  bosom,  earth  B.  Simmons    703 

Take  one  example  to  our  purpose  quite  Robert  /1ollok  706 
Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away 

S/iakespeare  and  John  Fletcher  168 
Take  the  open  air  ....  Anonymous  415 
Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean 

Tennyson 
Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers 
Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkinde 
Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred 
Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds 
Thank  Heaven  !  the  crisis 
Thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
That  each  who  seems  a  separate  whole  Tennyson 
That  Heaven's  beloved  die  early  Eben.  Elliott 


That  J  love  thee,  charming  maid 


223 

Longfellow  582 
R.  Lovelace  145 
Shal.es/ieare  629 
Chas.  Mackay  268 
E.  A  .  Ppe  189 
Whit  tier  567 

1S2 
706 


W>u.  Mag  inn    42 


That  which  her  slender  waist  confined     Waller 
That  you  have  wronged  me  doth  appear  in  this 

Shakespeare 
The  abbess  was  of  noble  blood   .         .     Scott 
The  angel  of  the  flowers,  one  day  (Translation) 

Krmmnacher  365 
The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold 

Byron 
The  autumn  is  old  T.  Hood 

The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished  throne 

Shakespeare 
The  bell  strikes  one  ;  we  take  no  note  of  time 

You  ng 
The  bird  let  loose  in  eastern  skies 
The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 

The  blessed  morn  has  come  again 
I  he  I"",    in. 11I  mi  the  burning  deck 
Tin-  lip  aking  waves  dashed  high 
I  The  brilliant  bl.u.1.  eye     ■ 


5° 

35 
6S4 


316 

558 

616 

T.  M.  iore  259 
D.  G.  Rosselti  044 
Ralph  Hoyt  320 
Mrs-  Hcmatis  4H7 
Mrs.  Ilcmans  4  1 
T.  Moore  46 


-ff 


a- 


78G 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I  come  by 

Jones  Very  325 
The  careful  hen        ....         Thomson  341 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels  .    Byron  331 

The  cock  is  crowing  -  .  .  Wordsworth  307 
The  comet !  he  is  on  his  way  .  .  O-  W.  Holmes  7.57 
The  conference-meeting  through  at  last  E.  C.  Stedman  619 
The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day 

T.  Gray  219 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  Longfellow  228 
The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns  Burns  127 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to  blink 

Wordsworth  1 3 
The  dreamy  rhymer's  measured  snore  W.  S.  Landor  701 
The  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine  Edwin  Waugh  79 

The  elder  folk  shook  hands  at  last  Whittier  285 

The  Emperor  Nap,  he  would  set  out       Southey  402 

The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I  think 

E.  B.  Browning  no 
The  face  which,  duly  as  the  sun  E.  B.  Browning  218 

The  Fallen  looked  on  the  world  and  sneered 

Sarah  E.  Carmichael  654 
The  farmer's  wife  sat  at  the  door  .  Anonymous  199 
The  fifth  day  of  May  .  .  .  John  Hedges  736 
The  fire  of  love  in  youthful  blood  .  Earl  of  Dorset  56 
The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine  oath 

E.  B.  Browning  in 
The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide  Shakespeare  41 
The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river        Shelley  57 

The  Frost  looked  forth,  one  still,  clear  night 

Miss  Gould  633 
The  frugal  snail,  with  forecast  of  repose  Lamb  759 

The  gale  that  wrecked  you  on  the  sand  Emerson  625 
The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state  Jas.  Shirley  187 
The  gorse  is  yellow  on  the  heath  Charlotte  Smith  346 
The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land  R.  Browning  85 
The  groves  were  God's  first  temples  W.  C.  Bryant  358 
The  half-seen  memories  of  childish  days  A-  De  Vere  32 
The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls  '/'.  Moore  455 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed    Scott  144 

The  heavens  declare  thy  glory,  Lord  !     Watts  282 

The  hollow  winds  begin  to  blow  Anonymous      313 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  !  Byron  464 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair 

Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.  752 
The  jester  shook  his  hood  and  bells  G.  W.  Thornbury  618 
The  keener  tempests  rise  ;  and  fuming  dun  Thomson  319 
The  kiss,  dear  maid,  thy  lip  has  left        Byron  144 

The  Lady  Jane  was  tall  and  slim 

Thomas  Ingoldsby,  Esq.  755 
The  laird  o'  Cockpen  he  's  proud  and  he  's  great 

Lady  Nairn  103 
The  lark  sings  for  joy  in  her  own  loved  land 

A  nonymo?/s  354 
The  latter  rain,  —  it  falls  in  anxious  haste  Jones  Very  316 
The  lion  is  the  desert's  king  Eerdinand  Freiligrath  339 
The  little  brown  squirrel  hops  in  the  corn 

R.  H.  Newell  775 
The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last  J.  R.  Lowell     96 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare  Addison  283 

The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale  Sir  J.  Suckling  124 
The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash  T.  B.  Read  429 
The  melancholy  days  are  come  W.  C.  Bryant  370 

The  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping  Chas.  Kingsley  198 
The  merry,  merry  lark  was  up  and  singing 

Chas.  Kingsley  210 
The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn  .  R.  Tannahill  299 
The  might  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love  (Trans- 
lation of  J.  E.  Taylor)  .  .  M.  Angelo  43 
The  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone  T.  Moore  455 
The  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall  T.  H.  Bayly  205 
The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill  John  Lowe       202 


The  moon  it  shines  .  .  .  Chas-  T.  Brooks  6 
The  moon  's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist 's  on  the  brae 

Scott  441 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear       Cam/bell  611 

The  morning  dawned  full  darkly  W.  E.  Aytoitn  677 

The  Moth's  kiss,  first  !  .  .  .  R.  Browning  80 
The  Muse's  fairest  light  in  no  dark  time  J.  Cleveland  701 
Then  before  all  they  stand,  the  holy  vow  Rogers  125 

The  night  comes  stealing  o'er  me  (Translation  of 

Charles  G.  Leland)  .  .  Heinrich  Heine  670 
The  night  is  late,  the  house  is  still  J.  W.  Palmer  178 
The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood  Cow/>er  318 
Then  took  the  generous  host  .  .  Bayard  Taylor  364 
The  ocean  at  the  bidding  of  the  moon  C .  Tennyson  326 
The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower  Jean  Ingelow  208 
The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go  Tennyson 
The  play  is  done,  the  curtain  drops  Thackeray 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  John  Keats 

The  point  of  honor  has  been  deemed  of  use  Cowper 
The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained  Shakespeare 
The   rain-drops   plash,   and    the    dead    leaves   fall 

(Translation) ....         Gautier 
There  all  the  happy  souls  that  ever  were  Ben  Jonson 
There  also  was  a  Nun,  a  Prioress  Chaucer 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses         R.  H.  Stoddard 
There  are  a  number  of  us  creep  Watts 

There  are  some  hearts  like  wells  Caroline  S.  Sf>encer  593 
There  are  who  say  the  lover's  heart  T.  K.  Hervey  121 
There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin 

Campbell 
There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep        Montgomery 
There  is  a  dungeon  in  whose  dim  drear  light 

Byron 
There  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower       .         Montgomery 
There  is  a  garden  in  her  face      .         .     R.  A  llison 
There  is  a  glorious  City  in  the  Sea  Rogers 

There  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougaune  Barra 

J.  J.  Callanan  456 
There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride  Montgomery  429 
There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight  Watts  266 

There  's  a  land  that  bears  a  world-known  name 

Eliza  Cook       443 
There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest  //".  B.  Tappan  269 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods  Byron  469 

There  is  a  Reaper  whose  name  is  Death  Longfellow       184 
There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men         Shakespeare 
There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended 

Longfellow 

There  lived  a  singer  in  France,  of  old  A .  C.  Swinburne  155 
There  lived  in  Gothic  days,  as  legends  tell 

Beattie  537 

There  never  yet  was  flower  fair  in  vain  J.  R.  Lowell  127 
There  's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  Thos.  Noel       252 

There  's  a  rustling  in  the  rushes  R.  IV.  Raymond  731 

There  's  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon  glen 

Bums  159 

There  's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover 

Jean  Ingelow    14 
There  the  most  daintie  paradise  on  ground 

Spenser  635 

There  was  a  jovial  beggar    . 
There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove 
There  was  music  on  the  midnight 
There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City   Thackeray 
The  road  was  lone  ;  the  grass  was  dank     T.  B.  Read 
The  rose  is  fairest  when  't  is  budding  new  Scott 
The  rose  looks  out  in  the  valley  (Translation  of 
John  Bowring)      ....    Gil  Vicente 
The  sea  is  mighty,  but  a  mightier  sways   W.  C.  Bryant  470 
The  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea  Barry  Cornwall  469 

The  seraph  Abdiel,  faithful  found  Milton  29° 


37 
253 
356 
599 

574 

347 
1S0 

559 

27 

593 


457 
1S7 

133 

368 

39 

53i 


595 


'75 


A  nonymous      732 
Byron  400 

Wordsworth  622 
Mrs.  H emails  214 
766 
290 
365 

348 


c& 


~o 


r 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


~a 


787 


B.  Browning  no 
A .  Marvell  280 
IV.  R.  Spencer  515 
Jolai  Sterling  657 


Tennyson 

33i 

Scott 

SiS 

Thomson 

5i4 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  Good 

Milton  261 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 

Thomson  321 

The  shades  of  eve  had  crossed  the  glen  3".  Fergtison  22 
The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway  .  N.  P.  Willis  223 
The  silly  lambs  to-day  .  .  .  R.  Baxter  259 
The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming  J.  R.  Lowell  184 
The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell    Rogers  585 

The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise 

E 
The  spacious  firmament  on  high  . 
The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound 
The  spice-tree  lives  in  the  garden  green 
The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill     • 
The  stag  too,  singled  from  the  herd     . 
The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 

Byron 

The  stately  homes  of  England  .  •  Mrs.  Hemans  137 
The  storm  is  out ;  the  land  is  roused  (Translation  of 

Charles  T.  Brooks)        .        ■        •    Korner 
The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet   Southey 
The  summer  sun  is  falling  soft        .         Thos.  Davis 
The  summer  sun  was  sinking      .         .    John  A  nster 
The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the  lofty  Ben  Lomond 

R.  Tannahill    50 
The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear         .    Shelley  228 

The  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air  .  E.  C.  Stedman  371 
The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright       Whittier  473 

The  sun  sets  in  night  .  .  .  P.  Freneau  215 
The  sun  shines  bright  in  our  old  Kentucky  home 

A  nonymous 
The  sun  sinks  softly  to  his  evening  post     R.  H.  Newell 


532 


452 
688 
687 
668 


148 
775 
323 
154 


The  sun  that  brief  December  day 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low 

The  time  hath  laid  his  mantle  by 

The  wanton  troopers,  riding  by    . 

The  warm  sun  is  failing    . 

The  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head    .    Mrs.  Hemans  213 

The  waters  purled,  the  waters  swelled  (Translation 

of  Charles  T   Brooks)         .         .     Goethe  670 

The  weather  leach  of  the  topsail  shivers  C.  TJiaxter      477 


Whittier 
.    Scott 
Charles  of  Orleans  306 

.    A  .  Marvell      238 
Shelley  316 


W.  G.  Sa/ims  syo 

A  nn  Collins     306 

.    W.  S.  r.andor  60S 

R.  II".  Emerson  460 

.     Wordsworth    297 


The  wind  blew  swde  l!ic  casement 

The  winter  being  over 

The  wisest  of  the  wise  . 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light   H.Vaughan    183 

They  are  dying  !  they  are  dying  !  Mac-Carthy      457 

They  come  !  the  merry  summer  months 

W.  Motherwell  310 
The  year  stood  at  its  equinox   .  C.  G.  Rossetti       44 

They  fain  would  sally  forth,  but  he  (Translation) 

A  nonymous      410 
They  made  her  a  grave  too  cold  and  damp 

T.  Moore  643 

They  tell  me  I  am  shrewd  with  other  men 

Julia  Ward  Howe  36 
They  waked  me  from  my  sleep  L.  //■  Sigourney  194 
The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love  T.  Moore 
Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him 

Shakespeare 
This  book  is  all  that  's  left  me  now 
This  is  the  forest  primeval 
This  life,  sae  far  's  I  understand 
This  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the      Uth 
This  was  t he  ruler  of  the  land 
This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true 

Milton 
Those  evening  bells  !  those  eveniug  bells  I 

T.  Moore 


G.  P.  Morris 
L  ougfcllow 
Burns 
Rogers 
Geo.  Croly 


70 

64 
.78 
548 
611 
536 
43" 

637 


22S 


Thou  alabaster  relic  !  while  I  hold  Horace  Smith 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  .         .    Bishop  Heber 

Thou  art,  O  God,  the  life  and  light  T.  Moore 

Thou  blossom,  bright  with  autumn  dew  W.  C.  Bryant 
Though  the  hills  are  cold  and  snowy       H.  B.  Stowe 
Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly      Longfellow 
Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech  C.  P.  Cranch 

Though  when  other  maids  stand  by         Chas.  Swain 
Thou  happy,  happy  elf !  .         .         .         T.  Hood 
Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God;  my  Jeanie 

A .  Cunningham 
Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray  Burtis 
Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness    John  Keats 
Tho,  when  as  all  things  readie  were  aright 

Spenser 
Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream    John  Logan 
Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west 

Chas.  Kingsley 
Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born  Dryden 
Three  students  were   travelling  over  the   Rhine 

(Translation  of  J.  S.  D wight)  .         Uhland 
Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  Wordsworth 
Through  her  forced,  abnormal  quiet         C.  G.  Halpine 
Through  life's  vapors  dimly  seeiug  Conder 

Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair     .         .         A.  Phillips 
'T  is  a  dozen  or  so  of  years  ago    .         .    A  nonymous 
'T  is  a  fearful  night  in  the  winter  time  C.  G.  Eastman 
'T  is  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  while 

Shakespeare 
'T  is  believed  that  this  harp        .         .     T.  Moore 
'T  is  done,  —  but  yesterday  a  king  !         Byron 
'T  is  midnight :  on  the  mountains  brown  Byron 
'T  is  morning ;  and  the  sun  with  ruddy  orb 

Cowper 
'Tis  much  immortal  beauty  to  admire  Lord  Thnrlow 
'Tis  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel  Byron 
'Tis  over;  and  her  lovely  cheek  is  now  Rogers 
'T  is  past,  —  the  sultry  tyrant  of  the  South 

A.  L.  Barbauld 
'T  is  sweet  to  hear        ....    Byron 
'T  is  sweet  to  view,  from  half  past  five  to  six 

James  Smith 
'T  is  the  last  rose  of  summer       .        •     T.  Moore 
'T  is  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night 

J.  R.  Drake 
'T  is  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved  Byron 
To  be,  or  not  to  be,  —  that  is  the  question 

Shakespeare 
To  clothe  the  fiery  thought  .         R.  W.  Emerson 

To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily      Shakespeare 
To  heaven  approached  a  Sufi  saint  (Translation  of 

William  R.  Alger)      .         .    Dsche'.laleddin  Rami 
To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 

//'.  C.  Bryant 
Toil  on  !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train  L.  H.  Sigonrney 
Toll  for  the  brave  ....    Cowper 

Toll  for  the  dead,  toll,  toll  !      •        .        R.R.  Bowker 
Toll  !  Roland,  toll  !      .  Theo.   Tilton 

To  make  my  lady's  obsequies  (Translation  of  Henry 

F.  Cary)         .  Charles  of  Orleans 

To  make  this  condiment  your  poet  begs  Sidney  Smith 
To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies       Goldsmith 
Too  late  I  stayed,  —forgive  the  crime  ! 

//".  A-.  A', 
Torches  were  blazing  clear      .         •         Mrs.  Hemans 
T' other  day  as  I  was  twining     .        .     Leigh  Hunt 
To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet        .      H.II.Milmnn 
To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes       Whit 
To  write  a  verse  or  two  is  all  the  praise  Geo.  Herbert 
Tread    oftly, — bow  the  head  Caroline  Bowles 

Trembling,  before  thine  awful  throne       '/'  II illhouse 
Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short  ■         .     <  oleridgt 


544 
180 
2S1 
365 
534 
6iS 
566 
no 
7 


18S 
634 

636 
201 

4S3 
701 


77 

282 

7 
768 
320 

39 

172 
711 
400 

3i8 
566 

3°3 
677 

315 
5S3 

77i 
365 

658 
229 

216 

625 
575 

262 

621 
475 
■ls4 
541 
54° 

190 
562 
530 

'"V 

21  _' 

66 

I2J 
179 

252 

5"-' 


<&- 


^P 


a- 


■88 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel         .         Tennyson  591 

Turn,  turn,  for  my  cheeks  they  burn    .    Sydney  Dobell  94 
T  was  all  prepared  ;  — and  from  the  rock  Scott  394 

'T  was  at  the  royal  feast,  tor  Persia  won      Dryden        585 
'T  was  in  the  prime  of  summer  time         T.  Hood  697 

'T  was  late  in  the  autumn  of '53  Anonymous      761 

T  was  morn,  and  beautiful  the  mountains  brow 

W.  L.  Bowles  332 
*T  was  on  the  shores  that  round  our  coast  W.  6".  Gilbert  735 
*T  was  the  night  before  Christmas  .  C.  C.  Moore  632 
'T  was  whispered  in  heaven  and  muttered  in  hell 

Miss  Fanshawe  591 
Two  barks  met  on  the  deep  mid-sea  Mrs.  Hemcins  34 
Two  hands  upon  the  breast  .  .  Miss  Mulock  177 
Two  pilgrims  from  the  distant  plain  Mac-Carthy      66 

Two  went  to  pray  ?     O,  rather  say  Richard  Crashaw  259 

419 


L  ongfellow 

T.  Il'estwood 

J.  T.  Fields 

.    Ben  Jonson 

Shakespeare 

.    J.  R.  Lowell 

Watts 

Whittier 

-     T.  B.  Read 

Joanna  Baillie    68 

Thomson  341 

W.  Allingham  667 

Geo.  Darley    311 


190 
709 
325 
3i3 
175 
448 

449 


Under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree  . 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window 

Underneath  the  sod  low-lying  . 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Untremulous  in  the  river  clear     . 

Unveil  thy  bosom,  faithful  tomb 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day 

Up  !  quit  thy  bower  ! 

Up  springs  the  lark 

Up  the  airy  mountain 

Up  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen  .        .        .     Whittier 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame  !  .         Pope 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay        .         .    Scott 

Wall,  no  ;  I  can't  tell  where  he  lives       John  Hay 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  surveyed 

Campbell 
Wave  after  wave  successively  rolls  on      Tuckerman 
We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I  J.  T.  Trowbridge  417 
Weehawken  !     In  thy  mountain  scenery  yet 

'  Halleck 
Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower        Burns 
Weep  ye  no  more,  sad  fountains  !  J.  Dowland 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin,  tim'rous  beastie    Burns 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town   IV.  Miller 
Welcome,  maids  of  honor  !  .         .     R.  Herrick 

Welcome,  welcome,  do  I  sing.        .         Wm.  Browne 
We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night 

Mrs-  Crawford  151 
Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain         J.  Sylvester     115 
Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte  Thackeray       764 

We  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage  (Translation  of  Charles 

G.  Leland)  ....    HeinrLh  Heine  529 

We  scatter  seeds  with  careless  hand    .     John  Keblc       574 
We  stood  upon  the  ragged  rocks      .        W.  B.  Glazier  300 
Iked  with  open  heart  and  tongue     Wordsworth      33 
We  the  fairies  blithe  and  antic  (Translation  of  Leigh 

Hunt)     ......     T.  Randolph    655 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red  Il'ordswor/h  193 
We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night  /'.  Hood  188 
We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin  .  .  J.  T.  Fields  481 
We  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood  C  F.  Hoffman  406 
We  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head  M.  W.  Lowell  210 
What  a  moment,  what  a  doubt !  .  .  Anonymous  763 
What,  and  how  great  the  virtue  and  the  art 

Lines  and  Couplets  from  Pope  625 
What  bird  in  beauty,  flight,  or  song  Montgomery  705 
What  change  has  made  the  pastures  sweet 

Jean  Ingelotv  93 
What  constitutes  a  state?  .  .  .  Sir  W.  Jones  459 
What  different  dooms  our  birthdays  bring  ! 

T.  Hood  244 

What  hid'st  thou  in  thy  treasure  caves  and  cells? 

Mrs-  Hemans  477  ( 


377 
262 

S'3 
740 

452 
622 


55° 
368 

575 

34° 

5 

366 

40 


What  hope  is  there  for  modern  rhyme     Tennyson  183 

What  is  death  ?  'T  is  to  be  free  .  .  George  Croly  613 
What  is  the  existence  if  man's  life  ?  Henry  King  253 
What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ?  J.  G.  Holland  3 
What 's  fame  ?  —  a  fancied  life  in  other's  breath 

Pope  594 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 

F.  A  .  Kemble  157 
What 's  hallowed  ground?     Has  earth  a  clod 

Campbell  606 

What,  was  it  a  dream  ?  am  I  all  alone  6".  T.  Bolton  382 
What  would  you  have,  you  curs  .  .  Shakespeare  601 
Wheel  me  into  the  sunshine  .  .  Sydney  Dobell  242 
When  a'  ither  bairmes  are  hushed  to  their  hame 

Thorn  19 

When  all  thy  mercies,  O  my  God  !  Addison  279 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes  .  .  R.  Herrick  4r 
Whenas  the  Palmer  came  in  hall  .  Scott  237 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command  Thomson  442 
Whence  could  arise  this  mighty  critic  Churchill  703 
When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street    Burns  638 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast     .    Burns  234 

When  Delia  on  the  plain  appears  .  Lo7d Lyttelton  55 
When  descends  on  the  Atlantic  .  .  Longfellow  473 
Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view  Geo-  Canning  726 
When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy  .  .  Samuel  Lover  51 
When  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond 

C.  E.  Norton  12 
When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height 

J.  R.  Drake  447 
When  gathering  clouds  around  I  view  Sir  R.  Grant  274 
When  God  at  first  made  man  .  .  Geo.  Herbert  591 
When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall  .        Shakespeare    319 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent    Milton  265 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time 

Shakespeare  617 
When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time  Shakespeare  42 
When  in  the  storm  on  Albion's  coast  .  R.  S.  Sharpe  48T 
When  Jordan  hushed  his  waters  still        Campbell  272 

When  leaves  grow  sear  all  things  take  sombre  hue 

Anonymous  317 
When  Love  with  unconfin^d  wings  Col-  R-  Lovelace  48 
When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die  .  Chas.  Lamb  194 
When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young  Wm.  Collins  587 
When  o'er  the  mountain  steeps  .  .  Rose  Terry  298 
When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls       Tennyson  183 

When  shall  we  all  meet  again  .  .  Anonymous  223 
When  that  my  mood  is  sad  and  in  the  noise 

// ".  G-  Simms  329 
When  the  black-lettered  list  to  the  gods  was  pre- 
sented      W.  R.  Spencer  135 

When  the  British  warrior  queen       .         Cowper  435 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  .  A.  C.  Swinburne  305 
When  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered     Longfellow       177 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered  .         .    Shelley  167 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld  Lady  Anne  Barnard  158 
When  the  showery  vapors  gather  Coates  Kinney  592 

When  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman  .  .  T.  B.Aldrich  107 
When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

Shakespeare  34 
When  we  two  parted    ....    Byron  150 

When  your  beauty  appears  .  .  Thos-  Parnell  77 
Where  are  the  swallows  fled  ?  .  .  Miss  Procter  348 
Whereas,  on  certain  boughs  and  sprays  Brownell  75^ 
Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn? 

Coleridge  385 

Where  music  dwells  ....  Wordsworth  585 
Where  noble  Grafton  spreads  his  rich  domains 

R .  Bloomfield  422 
Where,  O,  where  are  the  visions  of  morning? 

O.  W.  Holmes  725 


■-# 


a- 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LIXES. 


789 


t± 


Where  shall  the  lover  rest        .         .         Scott  172 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I  Shakespeare     656 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride  .  A.  Marvell  47S 
Whether  with  rea«nn  or  with  instinct  blest  Pope  595 

Which  is  the  wind  ;hat  brings  the  cold  ?  E  C  Stedman  334 
V  ;  ich  1  wish  to  remark  •  .  Francis  Bret  harte  728 
While  Laura  thus  was  seen,  and  seeing,  smiling 

Byron  498 

While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels  (Trans- 
lation of  Samuel  Rogers)  Leonidas  of  Alexandria  13 
Whilom  by  silver  Thames's  gentle  stream  M.  Akenside  737 
Whither,  midst  falling  dew.  .  .  W.  C.  Bryant  353 
Whoe'er  she  be  •  .  .  .  R.  Crashaw  69 
Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls  .  .  R.  IV.  Emerson  625 
Who  has  not  dreamed  a  world  of  bliss  II 'in.  Howitt  312 
Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere 

T.  Moore  337 

Who'll  press  for  gold  this  crowded  street?  Anonymous  621 
Why,  lovely  charmer,  tell  me  why  .  Anonymous  47 
Why  should  this  desert  silent  be?  .  Shakespeare  38 
Why  sits  she  thus  in  solitude  ?  .  .  A.  B.  M'elby  620 
Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover?  Sir  'J-  Suckling  169 
Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing  //.  //  'insloiv  583 
Widow  Machree,  it  's  no  wonder  you  frown 

Samuel  Lover  75 
Willie,  fold  your  little  hands  .  .  Miss  Mulock  156 
Wilt  thou  be  gone?  it  is  not  yet  near  day  Shakespeare  147 
With  awful  walls,  far  glooming,  that  possessed 

Leigh  Hunt  3S4 
With  deep  affection  ....  Father  Prout  540 
With  fingers  weary  and  worn  .  .  T.  If  nod  248 

Within  the  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees  T.  B.  Read  548 
With  little  here  to  do  or  see  -  •  Wordsworth  367 
With  silent  awe  i  hail  the  sacred  nioni  /  'r.  J  ■  Lcyden  298  ' 


AVith  sorrow  and  heart's  distress  .    Milton 

With  that  tie  fell  upon  the  old  man's  neck 

Southey 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  !     .         .         G.  P.  Morris 
Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king    C.  E.  Norton 
Wouldst  thou  hear  what  man  can  say      Ben  Jonson 
Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng  Shakespeare 
Would  you  know  why  I  summoned  you  together? 

J.  H.  Payne 
Year  after  year  unto  her  feet    .         .         Tennyson 
Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams        W.  M.  Praed 
Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around  Burns 
Ye  banks  aud  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon   .     Hunts 
Ye  little  snails  .         ....        A  uonymous 
Ye  mariners  of  England      .         .         .     Campbell 
Ye  overseers  and  reviewers      .         .         Sterne 
Ye  powers  who  rule  the  tongue   .         .     Cowper 
"Yes,"  I  answered  you  last  night      E.  B.  Browning 
Yes  !  there  are  real  mourners       .         .     Geo.  Crabbe 
Ye  who  would  have  your  features  florid  Horace  Smith 
You  bells  in  the  steeple        .         .         .     Jean  Ingeloiv 
"  You  have  heard,"  said  a  youth     .         Robert  Story 
You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon  A"    Browning 
You  may  give  over  plough,  boys  .    Sydney  1 'obeli 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night  .         Sir  H.  ll'ottou 
You  must  wake  and  call  me  early        .     Tennyson 
Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young  man       'P.  Hood 
"  Young,   gay,   and   fortunate  ! "    Each   yields   a 

theme        .....         Young 
Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn 

Samuel  Lover 
Your  horse  is  faint,  my  king,  my  lord  J.  G.  Lockhart 
Your  wedding-ring  wears  thin,  dear  wife  IV.  C-  Bennett 


233 

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201 

158 

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